End-Line

By Anthony Ford

Eight passengers are on the last train to Margate. It’s Christmas Eve and the Southeast of England is caught in a blizzard. The train suddenly stops alongside an abandoned station. One passenger disappears, later found murdered and they discover that every one of them answered an invitation for different reasons. Joanna, a soldier, is an unexpected guest and the one factor the killer hadn't figured on. With her help, can they end this nightmare or will they become victims of their past in this frozen tomb in the dead of night?

• Language: English
• Publisher: AG Books
• Release date: Oct 18, 2016
• ISBN: 9781785385957

Anthony Ford

n/a

Book preview

7:12

Prologue

Good Friday, 10.06pm

Father James Douglas now knew that his paranoia had justification. His rotund, cherub-like face was drained of colour, to resemble some pallid, contorted mask of panic. Small and grossly overweight, he had always looked angelic, trustworthy, with the palest of blue eyes - not now, those eyes at this moment, were haunted and he, the hunted.

Trembling and panting heavily, he glanced all around as he stumbled through the downpour and barged along the deserted pavement. Sweat and rainfall stung his face and his double chin wobbled as fear froze his thoughts and his heart thumped to deafen any coherent understanding his mind tried to make. He had never known the horror of being terrorised and helpless - now he knew. He was the prey, he was quarry, now he was the victim.

His heart continued - thu-thump, thu-thump, thu-thump... just like the big bass drum of a Salvation Army band - how symbolic, considering the large shadow who pursued him through the darkness and rain wore the uniform and peaked cap of that humble, God-fearing group. But it was the rhythmical rattle of the donation tin, together with the chilling hoarse whispering of, Father James, Father James... which stole through his pounding heart to scream out that salvation was not what his tormentor promised... death was on his heels and he knew it.

He was no longer a Priest - he had retired, forced retirement was the term to be precise - he was laicized and not allowed to serve in the Priesthood. Now James Douglas, ex-con and registered paedophile, was labelled offender no. 12685. The sexual predator of underage boys in Westerfield Catholic Boys School all those years ago. Since then he had been housed in specialist accommodation, for his own protection he heard - he never believed it, until tonight. For this night would be his last as a living, breathing member of the human race - for in four minutes he would be dead.

As he turned another corner he looked over and his pursuer was closing. He had gained on him and having raced over the road to the opposite side, was now almost level and he knew that in seconds he would overtake him - close in, cut him off, then...

He burst down the alley behind and into the shadows where the streetlights failed to penetrate and realised he was somehow following a trail and with every step was stumbling into a pre-designated trap. But again his thoughts betrayed him - like a rush of blind amnesia - he couldn’t think logically, just a panic of stumbling and staggering as he barged forever on.

The building site ahead was a spanking new development of residential apartments which branched off from the alley to form a mumble, jumble of scaffolding, stairwells, brick walls and skips, crammed with every kind of site rubbish. He turned and looked behind then staggered along the alleyway.

This was his only hope he thought - maybe he could lose his pursuer if he disappeared through the maze of unfinished corridors and doorways and stairwells which must escape onto a street of inhabitants. Even at this late hour, in this small seaside town, there must be someone, anyone, surely.

He stumbled into the semi darkness where a few yards ahead and high above, an enormous crucifix of wooden beams hung from chains swinging and creaking in the wind. And underneath, barely visible in the downpour was a curtain of fishing lines five rows deep, hanging like Spanish moss in some Louisiana swamp.

He barged forward and pushed aside the fine wire when he felt the first jabs of sharp steel penetrate his clothing, pierce his skin and dig into his flesh. Barbed fishing hooks where attached to the lines which swung back and forth in the wind and rain - soon he was ensnared.

As he staggered and grappled, some now pierced his hands and face, tugging at his lips and eyelids. As he struggled to pull free, flesh tore with them. He continued to stagger forward and the sudden agony of pierced genitals sent the pain surging to new heights and he screamed. Being overweight and sixty seven years of age, he fell forward on to his knees and the steel hooks dug in further and tore through his skin like a rusted knife ripping through old fabric. He screamed again through blinding pain, as the shadowy figure slowly approached from behind.

For a second the person observed him, relishing the moment, then turned and unravelled a chain from the scaffolding alongside. Slowly the huge wooden cross swung down to hang just above the concrete. Suddenly the blade of a butterfly knife glinted and with one swipe he was cut free from the entangled wires. The razor sharp edge sliced the wires above his head and he slammed to the cobbles of the alleyway.

Suddenly a noose was slung around his neck, then pulled tight and he screamed and pleaded as he was dragged toward the crucifix...

18.06pm

Four Hours Earlier...

These rotate every five seconds or so. What you see here is firstly...yeah, there’s the main gate, The site foreman, Joe McCabe, leant forward and indicated to the CCTV screen which sat alongside two others on the cluttered table. Wedged amidst used coffee cups, files, folders and newspapers in the cramped portacabin, the screens switched every few seconds to another camera shot.

McCabe was a small, wiry Welshman and had shaved to the skull, what was left of his hair and worked out every day, even into his fifties. A one-time referee, he had ‘ran the line’ at Wembley once and carried himself, as if he was running onto the playing field. And that’s us here, he added and stood up straight, as the portacabin flashed up on the second terminal screen.

Alongside sat Charlie Young, who pulled on his black rimmed spectacles, leant forward and studied the screen. He was an older gent, mid-sixties and temporary caretaker moonlighting for some extra pin money. He wore a suit with shirt and tie and long tweed overcoat, fraying at the sleeves and collar. The glasses where perched on his crooked nose, broken a long time ago in his carefree youthful days. He had also recently shaved - which with all the small cuts, was obviously carried out with a razor not in frequent use - but he needed the money, so here he was.

The screen then flipped to an interior shot of the construction complex. Okay, I can’t see any problems, stated Charlie and pulled off his glasses.

Right then, I’ll take you around the site, said McCabe and both stood and exited the portacabin.

This was the building site office for the new Appleby court - a nest of plush, up-market apartments, stacked off South Street which took up half a block, stretching back to where West Street ran towards the market town square. Westerfield was a small seaside town which sat on the Kent coast alongside the Thames estuary. The peninsula lay between the North Sea and the straits of Dover to the south. It was a cold, out of season resort which had seen better days - being a Victorian tourist attraction a long time ago, it now was home to retired senior citizens, affluent commuters and students who attended the local Further Education college and got drunk at the weekends, week days and afternoons. They swamped the peaceful town square with loud and riotous groups and individuals - they partied hard, talked too loud and congregated in their favourite local, where music blared and cheap food was sold alongside even cheaper beer.

As they walked through the construction site and into the main core of the apartment block, drizzle was just beginning and the skies clouding over.

They stepped through the large aperture into the foyer. This here, when finished will be, the main entrance. Twenty four hour concierge, the control panel - fob activated, car park entrance there., and he pointed through an open window to the side of the building. And from here, if you look around, both turned, gives a good vantage point for what will be the forecourt and the comings and goings of residents, couriers, visitors and the like.

Charlie nodded as they turned and walked around the large reception desk barren of fixtures and fittings. They proceeded up the staircase behind onto the first floor and approached one of the gaping windowless apertures looking towards the rear of the site.

You may wonder why, we require a night duty watchman for the weekend? Well, only yesterday we noticed that some equipment - two spades, a wheelbarrow and a whole pallet of bricks went walkabout. Not much, but we can’t afford to have that loss, these things mount up and I’m answerable to the short fall.

I know, it happens. I’ve worked in some places where you wouldn’t believe the things that have been stolen, added Charlie.

Exactly and these characters arrived, early evening, in a van which was parked over there., He indicated to the mouth of the back alley, Wearing high-vis vests and hard-hats, partially covering their faces, three of them walked straight in and proceeded to carry away the work tools then stripped the pallet bare of the bricks. We’ve got them on CCTV, but can’t identify any of them. It was either a blue or red van - difficult to tell as the cameras are black and white, but we spoke to the police and apparently we can’t seal off the alley as it’s in constant use by local business for loading and unloading.

There was a deep rumble of thunder and McCabe pulled up the collar of his anorak as the wind whipped all around and the rain crept closer. It now blew in through the gaping aperture and he indicated and they turned and walked towards the inner stairwell.

So, the suggestion was a night watchman, he continued. Always a good deterrent and being Easter weekend, we can’t afford to come back next Tuesday to find more equipment missing. We need a presence on site, patrolling every other hour. Anything untoward, contact the police and myself. I don’t live too far away anyway.

Charlie nodded in agreement. No problem.

Okay, I’ll take you to the top floor and back to the office then I’ll be on my way.

They climbed the staircase as the rain now fell heavily and poured through the gaping roof, down the scaffold and peppering the timber joists and beams high above.

20.06pm

Two Hours Earlier...

A red Vespa scooter pulled into the mouth of the alley, swerved over and parked up. A tall figure dressed in long black overcoat with crash helmet and a hold-all strapped to his back, stepped off the motorbike and switched off the engine. He wore plastic surgical gloves and opened the top-box attached to the back of the bike and pulled out a large pizza carton. He turned, flipped up the helmet visor and walked towards the back door of one shop in the alley.

The downpour danced on the roof of the portacabin and inside the television blared away. The Friday night lottery was in full swing and one contestant stood perplexed as he struggled with an answer from the quiz. Even I know that! said Charlie as he poured water from the kettle into his cup, dunked the teabag and drained it. He threw the small bag into the bin alongside and as he did so, he saw the tall figure carrying the pizza box turn into a shop doorway. He observed for a second then shrugged, turned away and pulled the fridge door open and lifted out a bottle of milk.

The figure however, hesitated in the darkness for a full thirty seconds, turned from the doorway, checked along both sides of the alley then ditched the pizza carton. Underneath the scaffold overhang, he stole along the alley towards the construction site, approached the steel framework underneath the camera and began climbing.

Reaching the level where the camera hung, he pulled out an adjustable spanner and began to unscrew the bolts on either side of the camera head and slowly pointed it downwards to aim into one of the rubbish skips. He proceeded to climb back down and stroll back up the alley and disappear into the shadows only to re-emerge seconds later carrying some road cones.

He exited onto West Street, glanced both ways then strode one hundred yards along. He placed down three cones sealing off two parking bays then turned back and approached the charity shop on the corner. He grasped the steel bolts on the wall alongside the drain pipe which he had hammered in over the past week and climbed. He approached the CCTV camera and cut the wires connected to them, then climbed back down. He looked around again then disappeared down the alley.

He had monitored the site for one week now and noted the absence of anyone patrolling. The alleyway had little to no business after hours - so it was perfect, isolated and fit the requirements. He had laboured every night in the early hours to bring various items and equipment needed for this evening and had done so, on the scooter using back roads and quiet lanes. Piece by piece he had transported all the necessary over the three mile journey from his home to here, now he was almost ready...

From amongst the scaffold and pallets he pulled three sections of large timber beams laid them on the cobblestones and began attaching the four feet sections to form a crucifix. He bolted them together, tightened them with the spanner and slid a chain through the large eye-bolt on the top. He then climbed the scaffold alongside up two storeys high, pulling the chain with him as he did so. He slung it over the steel poles holding the netting above which stretched over the entire alley, then climbed back down. He then hauled and pulled the heavy chain across towards the centre, then began hoisting the large crucifix up off the ground towards the netting forty feet above.

He unzipped the hold-all lying alongside the scooter and carefully pulled out sections of fishing-line attached to steel poles - all drilled and fastened in place. He laid the strands out on the cobbles and attached each one together, tightening the small bolts which kept each strand away from each other and in place. He then attached a chain to the poles then again climbed the scaffold.

He swung the chain over another steel pole, running the width of the alley then climbed back down and hoisted the whole lot up in one section to the netting above - the lines dangled and swung in the wind and rain. They hung down like a row of draperies and he stepped back from the tangle of razor sharp barbs and hooks, pulled off the helmet and admired his handiwork.

Rupert Riley smiled then his permanent sneer resurfaced and pulled the corners of his tight mouth down again. Although handsome in a tall, blonde Nordic way, his eyes burned with the cold hallmark of insanity. Together with a penetrable stare, one look of which could freeze the steeliest of men and marked a boundary few dared to cross.

He was twenty two, stood six-foot five and hunched slightly. With narrow shoulders and bowlegs, his gangly, awkward frame had never changed over the years, only grew, seeming to exaggerate every flaw he had tried over the years to hide. Now every deception, weakness and cover up he had garnered was glaringly obvious by its distortion - he hunched to hide, he stooped to disappear, he tried to wear a permanent grin over a painful mask. All had failed, so he had given up - he was what he was...

He approached the scooter and lifted out from the top-box, a Salvation Army peaked cap and donation tin. He placed in the helmet, then pulled off his overcoat and the plastic gloves then placed those in alongside. Underneath he wore the uniform of Major Luther Alexander - his alter-ego for this evening. He glanced around and flicked open an umbrella, turned and exited the alley.

* * *

21.06pm

One Hour Earlier...

The small car sped through the country lanes towards Westerfield, towards a new start and a promise of redemption. Father James Douglas, as he would always think of himself, was ecstatic and drove with a new found confidence. It had been too many years since he had ventured into the small town - nigh on six years as the terms