Blood Storm

30

They drove back at modest speed to Paula's flat. The streets were silent. A light drizzle had begun to fall. Tweed was tired out, a rare state. Paula lifted a hand to hide a yawn. She too was on her last legs. It had been a long day with the grim climax in Marina's flat.

Driving along the Fulham Road, Tweed turned in to the yard, stopped outside her entrance at the front. He got out to check the inside of her place, left the key in the ignition, something he'd never normally have done. She followed him.

There were no lights in the flat below hers, which was occupied by a woman Paula had assumed had gone abroad. She was usually a night bird with her lights ablaze. She suddenly sensed someone was behind her, caught a faint whiff of chloroform. She sucked in a deep breath, held it. A cloth soaked in the liquid was pressed over her face as another arm wrapped itself round her.

Tweed was aware of nothing. A chloroform cloth was pressed over his face and he took in the full dose, sagging as burly arms caught him. They were dragged round the back, shoved into the rear of a car.

Paula had absorbed a little of the chloroform, enough to put her out of action for a short time. One man leaned in, dragged the hands of Tweed's slumped form, pulled them round his back, clamped on plastic handcuffs.

Paula, now vaguely aware of what was happening, held her hands a few inches apart, in her lap. Plastic handcuffs clamped her wrists together. She was more aware of what was happening now. Two men's voices.

'Get in Tweed's car,' said Radek. 'The friggin' fool has left keys in the ignition. Hide it where ours is parked.'

God! she thought. Fitch and Radek.

'No!' snarled Fitch. 'We leave our own car round the back. It's stolen, so are the plates. It is a Ford – like Tweed's. Take hours for anyone to think it's odd.'

'Why haul the bodies from one car to another? Get behind the wheel, Fitch, and we'll move off now.'

'Guess you could be right. I'll drive. Throw that blanket over 'em. Patrol cars drift round this time of night. Then we head straight for the warehouse…'

At one stage during the drive, which seemed to Paula to go on for ever, they stopped briefly in the East End while Radek dumped both treated cloths in a rubbish bin, then moved on.

At one convenient moment Paula stretched her cuffed hands under the blanket to check Tweed's neck pulse. It was beating regularly. He was just unconscious. Eventually the car stopped, waited while Fitch checked no one was in the area. Returning to the car, he gave the order.

'Padlock undone, doors open. Radek, you take Tweed up over your shoulder, I'll take his bedmate,' he said coarsely.

Paula was thrown over Fitch's shoulder, was carried behind Tweed up wide wooden steps, into a large room. Fitch paused to turn on a wall switch. Dim light flooded every corner of the bare room, emanating from lamps attached to the walls.

'What about the car?' Radek wanted to know.

'Forget it. Everyone round 'ere knows I drive Fords, that I'm always changing them. Position them.'

Fitch dumped Paula's limp form on the floor. She could feel all her senses returning suddenly. Radek dropped Tweed without ceremony on the wooden floor. He stood up, walked over to Paula.

'I'll check her for weapons. You do Tweed.'

'No mucking about with her,' Fitch warned, walking nearby to Tweed. 'I know you with wimmin, so watch it.'

Paula stayed slumped as Radek began to check her. His hands explored the upper parts of her body first, pressing into her chest, over the rest of her body slowly, enjoying his work. Paula had dressed quickly. The slim leg holster holding her Beretta was, unusually, strapped to the inside of the leg. Eventually he started running his hands slowly down the outside of her legs from thigh to ankle. She spat savagely in his face. He jumped.

'This one's awake,' he called out, then slapped her very hard across the face, so hard her head jerked sideways.

He stood up, spat back at her, so furious that he didn't continue his search any further. Fitch had found Tweed's bolstered Walther under his arm. He threw it across the room. It landed close to the wall.

'You won't ever be needin' that again, mate,' he told him with a grin.

Tweed's eyes were now open, staring up at Fitch who, despite his ruthlessness, didn't like the look.

'That's right,' he sneered. 'Keep the eyes open. So you can watch the picture show.'

Paula, sitting up now, pretending to sway, watched as Radek bent over the four projectors, aimed at different angles. Looked like the sort of thing you might see in a Hollywood studio. Then she saw four screens, one attached to each wall. What the hell was all this?

'You can manage on your own now,' Radek said, making it a statement. 'I am off to find some beer. Not as good as you get in Bratislava, but good enough. OK?'

'Shove off,' Fitch said rudely.

He was bent over a handle in the floor close to Tweed. He lifted a large round wooden lid, shoved it to one side on the floor. Faintly Paula heard the distant sound of rushing water a long way down in the exposed hole. She didn't like the sound of that.

'What the hell do you want that for?' Radek demanded.

'In case one of them isn't driven barmy for good they'll go down the chute. When you knows me better, Radek, you'll knows I thinks of everything. Now switch on the machines, then piss off and drown yourself in beer.'

Paula saw Fitch fix in earplugs. She was more puzzled than ever. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Radek bend over his apparatus.

'You can stay and watch if you want to,' Fitch bawled out.

'Seen them often enough. Get this lot started and I'm off looking for beer.'

He pressed levers on the projectors, adjusted the focus as pictures began to appear on all four screens. Vile pictures, Paula thought. Tweed had managed to sit up on the floor, his handcuffs behind his back, making him a prisoner.

Radek turned to the other machine, pulled a switch halfway down. A terrible ear-splitting screech filled the warehouse. Nerves on edge, Paula stretched her hands as wide as she could inside her lap. The pictures turned her stomach. A cow tethered in a field. A man with a huge axe appeared, raised it, chopped off the cow's head. Blood welled out, the poor creature's legs jumped madly, even though headless. Then it flopped. A fresh picture on another screen. A peasant woman, tied to a block of stone. A short fat man appeared, also carrying a huge axe. He rested it gently on the woman's exposed neck. Her mouth was wide open, presumably screaming. The fat man raised the axe, brought it down with a tremendous swipe, took her head right off the neck. It rolled on the ground. He kicked it towards the screen. It vanished. Paula glanced at all the screens. On each some hideous massacre was taking place. She forced down a feeling of sickness. Three women tied to a huge rock were approached by three men carrying axes. Execution was going to be synchronized.

Paula sucked in her breath as she saw their stomachs were bare. The target for the axes. Fitch walked past her, then bent down to be close to her ear.

'Not loud enough. I'se turning up the sound.'

Still close to her ear he giggled. Giggled again. That was what did it.

He pressed the switch lower and the walls seemed to tremble under the diabolical blast of sound. The assault on her ear drums. He bent down again, giggled in her ear. He walked away from her to sit on the cheap wooden chair he'd sat on near Tweed, his back to her. She turned sideways, forced her right hand down inside her leg despite the pain of the cuffs, grabbed the Beretta out of its holster.

She aimed at Fitch's back. First bullet in his shoulder. Fired again. Second bullet in the centre of the back, close to the spine. Swinging round she emptied her gun at the projector, the sound system. The pictures died. An uncanny silence.

It all happened so quickly. She swung round. Tweed had heaved his whole body against the chair, toppling chair and Fitch over sideways. The thug slid to the edge of the chute, legs vanishing inside it, hands desperately clinging to the lip of the hole.

Tweed forced himself upright. Stiffening his legs, he stood above Fitch's terrified face as Paula staggered alongside him. Fitch was screaming. Nothing like the screams the poor women in the film must have uttered, Paula thought.

'Help me! Please! Help me,' Fitch gasped.

Tweed raised one foot. Stamped it down hard on one of the hands supporting him. The other hand let go. Fitch was plunging down the circular metallic chute, both hands flat against the metal, desperately hoping for support. There was none. They heard a faint gurgle as he sank below the torrent of water surging towards the Thames. Then only rushing water.