Chapter 53 - Do not Forsake Me!

Music is "Rise of theVillains" by the Prime Cronus

"So pleased to finally meet you in person," Brian said. "You're a tick hard to get hold of."

A volley of thoughts ricocheted through Ike's head. Synapses sparked wildly and flooded her system with adrenaline, ratcheting up full panic mode. All of it rather useless given that she was trapped between the side of the skip and the wall of the palazzo, facing a killer not even two metres away.

Gun, what if he has a gun, a useless alarm screamed through her head, for some strange reason using Gary's voice.

Well, if he did, she would be done for.

Ike wriggled backwards, away from the coyote smile and surprisingly cultured tones of her adversary, which didn't match the menace in his baby blues.

"Ah, what are you afraid of? Very clever to be hiding where you are. Where I can't get at you. What I can do, of course, is block your back exit. Thing is, I'm faster than you. Let me demonstrate."

Muscled arms as strong as pistons gripped the wheel, whirled the chair around and it vanished from view—only to appear at the other end of the skip at what felt like a nanosecond later.

"See?" The grin slipped, became a leer of triumph.

It dawned on Ike that her plan of surprising Brian had been flawed from the outset; she had underestimated his mobility. The alley between the palazzo and the next house was narrow, but not tight enough to block the wheelchair. Yes, the ground was uneven but so was the pavement and that hadn't slowed him down in the slightest. Behind the skip, she was safe. Once, she emerged, all bets were off. However, he also hadn't thoroughly thought things through. If the guy kept zipping back and forth from the alley towards the other end of the skip, he would eventually attract attention. All she needed to do was to keep him moving.

She wriggled towards the alley end of the skip and, hey presto, the ruse worked. Brian popped up like an evil genie grinning like the Joker when finding Batman under his bed.

He WAS fast.

Way too fast for her liking. And way too close.

About to wriggle backwards again, Ike remembered her original goal, which was to make that moron fess up.

She licked lips as dry and flaky as yesterday's porridge. "We can keep this up for hours if you like. I'm still not quite sure what you're actually trying to achieve. Why did you come up to my room only to leave again, for example?"

The leer became more pronounced. "Spotted your shadow, my dear. I don't like it when people are prepared for me. I much prefer to catch you unawares."

Not a confession yet, but it appeared good old Brian was dying to brag about his deeds.

She would be only too happy to let him rip. Assuming the tosser didn't have a gun. If he did, all bets were off.

Gun thoughts were no good at all. They made her pulses race and muddled the reasoning.

The vision of that graveside flashed in her brain and Ike switched it off.

Then she shifted her balance. Her hip, squeezed against the rough plasterwork of the wall protested with pain and threatened to stop the service. Her left leg tingled a warning it would go numb any time soon. She didn't need that either.

"Like you did at the fountain?"

Bushy ginger eyebrows crawled towards each other, creating a hairy t-bar across a roomy forehead under a shiny bald bonce. "You got lucky there, madam, very lucky," he growled.

Where she stood, only part of his solid hunk squatting in the chair was visible.

It was quite enough, thank you.

A broad chest threatening to bust the flimsy fabric of his white tee-shirt, arms like hams, meaty paws gripping the rims of wheels as large as those of a coach. Eyes narrowed to slits, nostrils wide, a lion waiting to strike.

The pins and needles in her leg got more pronounced. The hip screamed louder.

Ike curled and uncurled her toes to keep the circulation going.

"I'm still not sure what your problem is with me. We never met."

A flash in those eyes, a snort from the crooked nose. Did it get broken in the accident that destroyed his life?

"Don't need to, you women are all the same. And you're in partnership with dear Lord Nettlehole."

The last two words hissed from his mouth like hot steam.

If she could have shrunk into the wall of the palazzo, she would. But it was as solid as the battered steel on her other side.

Her heart fluttering in her throat like a moth, Ike dropped the crucial question. "You want to take me out for that? And you killed poor Shalon because she looks like me?"

He threw his head into his neck and barked a humourless laugh. "Wrong, dear. I wanted to teach you a lesson, yes. Once I turned up in the bog, I realised which bird I had caught. Bitch opened her foul mouth and dared to insult me once too often. There is only so much a bloke can take. Should take. Bloody women don't know their place anymore. Snooty cows think they are equal to men. You lot only have one purpose, you hear? Be there for your men. Okay, I'm wrong. Two purposes. Have a man's baby. But you bitches think you rule the world, eh?" Spittle was flying from his mouth as he banged the armrests of his seat, his hatred radiating into the gap, a ghastly re-run of the dive.

Surely, somebody had noticed the rant and would come running?

With her heart pounding in her ears, she listened.

Nobody did.

Rage was given these days. Best to put your head down and ignore it. Hope for it to go away.

Only it wouldn't.

A short push from those massive arms and the wheelchair shot forward. Its metal footrest banged against the skip with a boom that filled Ike's head with its ominous echo.

Eyes bulging in his forehead, the killer's gaze skewered Ike on the spot. "Gave me an idea. One bitch down. One to go. You look like her, you're uppity like her. And his effing lordship likes you. Two flies with one swat, eh?"

Hang on. What was the bloke on about?

He didn't kill Shalon because he mistook her for Ike. Instead, once he had strangled poor Shalon, he wanted to kill Ike because she looked like his first victim? Who dared to reject him? The superior being? The man?

"And you believe if I'm dead, Gary will hand over his business on a silver platter?"

That booming laugh again. "Lordy Meddlemole hasn't got any silver platters left. As poor as the proverbial church mouse. One step away from ruin."

"LiteraTours is doing quite well, you know."

Not a clever move.

Boom.

A club-like fist hit the skip and Ike winced.

"Because you interfered. You and that French bitch. She'll be next in line after you, do you hear?"

Strangely enough, the more he ranted and raved, the calmer she got.

Impossible that people wouldn't take notice.

This couldn't go on forever. Even in the modern see nothing, hear nothing, say nothing society there had to be people with courage.

Correction: She knew them to exist. The only question was how long it would take them to turn up.In the meantime, she would continue to wheedle the truce out of this murderous moron.

Ike shifted balance again and squeezed along the wall, back towards the little shop.

"Told you already, I'm faster. You won't escape."

Perhaps not, but that wasn't the purpose of the exercise. Ike wiggled her sadly substantial posterior, and Brian vanished, only to re-appear on the other side before she the count of two.

To string him on a bit, she again shifted towards the alley, then stopped moving.

"Gotcha there," he said, acid dripping from each word.

"I would call it stalemate," she said pleasantly. "One more thing I'm not sure about. Why the sabotage? And what did you do with Lord Byron's head?"

"I hate effing poets," Brian bellowed.

"I'm not a fan of his odes either," Ike said fighting the idiotic hilarity bubbling up in her throat. The whole situation wasn't remotely funny.

Strangely enough, shared hate of Romantic poetry seemed to calm him down. "It's obvious for anybody with half a brain cell. If the tours don't work, his effing lordship would have had to sell. The concept is sound, it would go nicely with what Serious Study Tours does already. Don't need any more blasted competition sneaking the customers away from me. Not enough to go around these days. Bastards arrange their own trips using the Internet or buy MacHolidays from the biggies. No space for small businesses."

If he hadn't been a murderer, a supremacist and a madman, Ike would have agreed with him.

Brian wasn't finished. His urge to boast, to be the top dog was just too strong.

"I started off slow, with the dinner. Was hoping to hurt one of the tourists with that marble head but my gizmo didn't reach far enough. Couldn't give the head a good whack, just managed to push it off the neck. So, I cut the brake line of that fancy coach instead."

The coach part she understood. "Gizmo?"

Brian fumbled in the pockets of his seat, his gaze never wavering.

"This." He pointed a metal truncheon at her and pushed it with his thumb. A metal rod exploded towards her like the shaft of a foldable umbrella and Ike jumped backwards.

Or would have, if the wall and the skip hadn't been in the way.

Instead, her jumper got caught, and she scraped the skin on her waist.

Ike suppressed a swearword.

"Heh," Brian said, satisfied. "I had this specially made. Handy little thingy, means I don't have to get up if I want to pry open cupboards and stuff."

He got no further.

An orange curved through the air and bounced off the killer's shiny bald pate.

"What the . . ." Brian swung his wheelchair around to face a person she couldn't see. But when he spoke, her heart tap-danced in her chest.

Gary.

"Sorry old chap, but I had to find a way to attract your attention without getting too close. There's somebody who would like to have a wee chat as they would say up North."

There was movement on the alley side of Ike's hideout.

A figure in blue, waving urgently at Ike to come out.

The policewoman.

Ike's head whipped around, and there was Guidetti, standing towards the left entrance of gap, his gun trained on Brian. His back turned on Ike, the murderer slowly raised his arms.

It was over.

Do let me know if you have questions or comments on my novel. Constructive suggestions and feedback are always welcome! And thank you for reading. In doing so, you give my writing a purpose.