Vengeance Is Mine Alone

By Alan Williamson

Vengeance Is Mine Alone is a crime drama about a loner, Roger who plans the destruction of a criminal gang known as the Demon Crew who abduct his girlfriend, gang rapes her, and leaves her to die from severe head injuries. Initially, Roger is the main person of interest for the police, but the wheels of justice move far too slowly for Roger. After nearly killing one of the members of the gang in a legal cage fight the gang attempt to put out a contract on him. Roger aided by his mate Tamati who is unaware of Roger's plans to turn a wreck of an old Bedford truck into a weapon of destruction, help set Roger's plan in motion. Roger recruits the gang leader's half-sister Tequila as a spy in the gang's camp. To Roger's horror, Josh, the gang leader, escapes Roger's retribution and murders his half-sister for her part in Roger's plan. Josh seeks out Roger in an act of utu (revenge). Josh is killed in the gunfight leaving Roger to face the consequences of his actions.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Alan Williamson
• Release date: Sep 9, 2020
• ISBN: 9781005671938

Alan Williamson

Alan Williamson is a Chief Technology Officer and partner of MacLaurin Group, a provider of operating partner services in technical and data analytics for private equity and investment companies. Alan supports portfolio company operations, having provided interim-CTO duties for Chicago Growth Partners and ParkerGale Capital. Alan served as full-time CTO at Royall & Company where he was responsible for the architecture, development and maintenance of all systems to support the needs and requirements of clients. With a deep background in high-volume server processing, Alan was the first UK Java Champion, a program by Oracle/Sun to recognize the Top 100 people who have contributed the most to Java.

Book preview

Prologue

A heavy curtain like grey clouds stretched towards the horizon broken only by the indistinct outline of the White Island volcano. The waves, grey with foam washed around his bare feet. The drab atmosphere reflected his mood. A year had passed since the Motu River incident, but Roger didn’t regret what he had done. His conscience was clear. He did not feel remorse. In his mind was justified. Yes, he thought as he slowly wound in the line on his surfcasting rod, it was justified. However he still mourned Tequila’s death, a consequence of his actions. Her death haunted him, and it would forever.

Chapter 1 First meeting

Roger became aware of Bridget a couple of days before Christmas in the main street of Whakatane, the nearest main shopping centre to his home town Opotiki. He had just bought some material for his toy repair business and was walking out of the fabric store when he saw her. She had paused outside the nearby bookstore. There was a look of real fear on her face. She turned and ran straight into him dropping her parcels. The look of panic on her face shocked him. She didn’t stop or say anything, but left the parcels where they lay and continued to run down the street. Roger grabbed the parcels and ran after her. She stopped running at the end of the street and looked back. Roger caught up with her.

‘Miss,’ he said, ‘Miss, you dropped your parcels.’

‘Parcels?’ she looked confused, then not looking at him she grabbed them off him with a quick, ‘Thanks,’ and turned to walk away.

‘Is something wrong? Can I help?’ he said to her retreating back.

‘No, I’m okay,’ she said in a shaky voice over her shoulder and continued to walk. Roger shrugged his shoulders and walked back along the main street. When he reached the bookstore he stood where she had stood and looked at the bookstore. He wasn’t able to see inside the store door because of the angle of the store’s front window therefore, he reasoned, it could not have been a person that scared her as he had been the only one in the near vicinity and he was unknown to her.

He looked at the store’s bright Christmas display. There was tinsel and the words Merry Christmas sprayed in white lettering. There was a tree with book presents attached and a white faced Father Christmas animated doll waving its mechanical arm at the street. Certainly nothing sinister, he thought.

Roger shrugged his shoulders and went to the car park and climbed into the old shiny Ford Cortina Mark IV. The old Ford kicked then purred. He smiled, planted his foot hard on the accelerator and forgot about the strange girl while he concentrated on getting out of the car park before heading up to King Street to the town’s two main charity shops. He found a park behind the shops and locked up the car. The area was known for car break-ins. Roger always called in to check if anyone had donated any interesting dolls or toys that he could turn into something worth auctioning at antique markets specialising in toys and dolls. Sometimes he got lucky.

There was nothing in the Catholic charity shop, but the Red Cross shop had an old plastic doll with well made costume. For three dollars it was well worth it. The costume could be washed and the plastic repaired. It would sell for $30 minimum. He walked out of the shop and returned to the car.

‘Fuck me, the guy’s got a dolly,’ said the heavily built, bearded rough looking guy leaning on Roger’s car. ‘Must be one of these fairy guys.’

His mates, a Maori in a hoody and a skinny white guy who had what looked like a wire clothes hanger jammed down the passenger side window frame laughed.

Roger put the doll down by the wheel of the car next to his. Always take out the leader had been drummed into him by his martial arts trainer Terry, an ex SAS soldier.

‘You sound like a big arse licker yourself big boy,’ Roger goaded him. ‘All talk as long as you’ve got mates to help you. Get off my car you faggot!’

The guy roared, ‘Fuck you!’ and ran at him. Roger leaned to the left and kicked with his right foot into the big guy’s crotch, then spun on one leg and slammed his elbow into the side of the guy’s head as he doubled up, The guy staggered back as Roger put a hard driving kick into the staggering man’s knee cap. The man screamed and went down heavily hitting his head hard on the bumper of Roger’s car. Roger turned on the other two who backed away.

‘Let’s go,’ the skinny white guy said, and started to back away. His Maori mate paused, but when Roger took a step towards him he ran.

Roger watched them until they disappeared into an alley between the shops, then dragged the big guy over to the fence, turned him to the recovery position, checked he was still breathing and picked up the doll. He pulled the bent wire out carefully from the passenger side window. There was no damage he could see. Roger put the doll into the boot and unlocked the driver’s side door, climbed in and quickly started the engine. The big guy’s two mates would be back with others he reasoned. He reversed out quickly and headed out to King Street.

Once out of town on State Highway 2 to Opotiki he relaxed and tried to picture the woman again. Small frame, definitely pretty in a sort of old fashioned way, dressed simply in a black. He saw the look of panic and tried to work out what it was she saw that caused it. Nothing came to mind.

Chapter 2 Home

Home was a big two-storey house at the base of a wooded hill five minutes’ walk from the sea on a loop road just off the Te Kaha highway. Built in the late eighteen hundreds it was old by local standards. Wide wooden boards painted cream some ten years ago now showing signs of the salt air climate. The style could be called Victorian. A three metre high hedge and a tall solid wooden gate kept beach goers from looking at the property. Roger liked his privacy. There was a veranda facing the beach loop road and a couple of rickety old cane chairs near a wide window and a door painted brown with coloured glass panels in it. The land surrounding the house was well kept, but that was not of his doing. He paid a retired neighbour, Joe Horton to look after the lawns and the garden. Joe used the extra cash to gamble on the horses, Roger with Joe’s help had created a large vegetable garden out the back of the property that supplied both of them with fresh vegetables.

When he got home he garaged the Ford, locked up and walked up the steps to the veranda.

Roger kicked off his shoes, shook out the sand in them onto the garden below the veranda and placed them neatly by the door. He opened the door, reached for the black canvas Chinese slip-ons waiting for him in the hallway. These were the shoes he also wore for martial arts workouts and tournaments.

Roger made sure the interior was beautifully preserved as his mother had kept it, a tribute to her fastidiousness which was something he’d inherited. Highly polished floors and walls covered in slightly faded decorative wallpaper greeted him.

Closing the brown door behind him he made his way down the gloomy hall. The long hallway had doors to the left and right, the left to the lounge, dining room and kitchen, the right to his study and workshop. The hallway culminated in a stair leading to the two bedrooms and bathroom on the upper storey. He opened the door on the left and entered passing through the carpeted lounge to the dining room. All the windows were hung with thick dark velvet drapes keeping out the sun. The furniture harked back to the Edwardian era. Everything wooden was polished to a degree of fastidiousness worthy of a well-run household of a century ago, not that he was enamoured with the Edwardian look of the house. It was just the way he had been brought up and he didn’t see the need to change anything.

Leaving the lounge Roger went into his workshop study and got a sketchpad and a sharp pencil. Sitting in the wooden chair in his study Roger tried to remember her features. After several attempts he thought he had got it just about right, even the suggestion of panic, the haunted look in the eyes.

‘Yes,’ he said out loud. ‘Yes, I think I’ve got you miss whatever your name is. I think I’ve got you.’

Chapter 3 The Auction

Later, after the Christmas holiday rush was over Roger saw the young lady again. It was only a brief sighting. He was driving through the outer suburbs of Whakatane going to an auction in Kopeopeo when he saw her. She was on the opposite side of the street to the tennis courts walking towards the shops. She was in jeans with a dark green T-shirt. She had a woven rope bag and was probably going shopping. He was tempted to stop but realized he needed to get to the auction before it started so he could look over the items on offer.

The auction promised to be important. It was a house lot including children’s toys. You never know, he thought, the collection could contain something unique. After all there had been several girl children in that house.

He remembered reading about the car accident in the local paper. The deaths included the father and his two daughters. It was a well-known local family. The father had worked in a high up position in the Whakatane Board Mills so the daughters wouldn’t want for anything. Yes, it was more important to check out the auction.

He glanced in the rear vision mirror and saw the woman he would later know as Bridget cross the street, and then he lost sight of her as he turned the corner.

The auction room was a dull old church hall lit by three neon tubes. He looked up at the ceiling as he walked in and shuddered at the sight of all the cobwebs he could see. He hated spiders ever since a psychotic incident when he was three.

The auction had little of interest. There were a few toys but nothing that could be described as exciting. There were dolls mainly of the Barbie sort and he wasn’t interested in mass produced garbage like that. One toy caught his eye, a very large old rag doll. It was a rather large forlorn looking doll, rather battered and what one might call much loved. However something could be done to it to bring it back to life he thought. When the lot came up Roger bid 50 cents and there were no other takers. He was well pleased.

Putting it in a plastic bag the auction assistant said, ‘For your little girl?’

‘Hardly,’ said Roger. ‘I’m a collector.’

‘Really?’

The way the man said it showed he doubted Roger’s explanation. Roger smiled and gave him his business card.

‘If anything interesting comes up in the doll or toy line give me a call.’

The man looked at the card. It read ‘Roger Beaumont. Collector of antique toys. Registered vintage and antique repairs undertaken’. It listed his name and Opotiki address.

‘Well I never. If anything comes up…’

Roger smiled and left the auction room. His car was parked down the street. He tucked the bag under his jacket and strode to the car. Opening the driver door he put the doll carefully on the passenger seat where it sat like a little child. He even strapped it into the seat with the seatbelt then drove slowly back through the Kopeopeo shopping centre, passed the chip shop where local Black Power gang members hung out, retracing his steps to where he last saw the young lady, but she was nowhere in sight. He debated whether he should park the car and wait to see if she would come back that way.

Pulling into the curb he parked near the high school entrance, but after ten minutes gave up and headed down to State Highway 2 and home.

Chapter 4 Transformation

Once in the garage he double locked the wooden doors, unstrapped the rag doll and tucking it under his arm went into the house and through to his workshop. There he placed the doll on the workbench in a sitting position.

‘There we are love, we’ll soon have you looking your old sweet self,’ he said.

He looked around the room. The walls were crammed with cardboard boxes on shelves that went right to the ceiling. Each box had a description of its contents written boldly in freehand writing. Apart from the shelves, boxes and the workbench the room also contained an old Singer sewing machine on a sewing table, a wooden chair and a plastic box containing a variety of tools. Spotting a box high up on one of the shelves he took the wooden chair, stood on it and brought down the box. The writing on the box said gingham and he took several metres of the material out of the box before returning the box to the shelf. Stepping off the chair he walked to the workbench and draped the cloth around the rag doll then stepped back.

‘Yes, that should do it,’ he said. ‘That should do you nicely my pretty one.’

He took the cloth off the doll and put it on the sewing table then picked up the doll.

‘But first you need a bath. Jeeze, those little girls didn’t really look after you did they. Treated you cruelly. Didn’t wash you. Poor thing.’

Roger walked through to the kitchen where there was an old copper. He placed the doll beside the copper, poured in half a cup of washing powder and ran the hot tap stirring the powder with a stick until it dissolved into a thick sudsy mixture. Satisfied he picked up the doll and placed it into the brew.

‘Sweet dreams my pretty. You’ll look like a princess after this.’

Leaving the doll to soak Roger put on the kettle to make a well-disserved cup of tea. He mused there would be enough time to drink the tea and perform the ritual hunt before Joe Horton came by with vegetables from the garden.

The ritual hunt involved getting a can of fly spray and a duster with an extended handle then checking every nook and cranny in the house and garage for spiders. He hated spiders with a passion because he was mortally afraid of them. Nothing could send him into a fit of fear quicker than seeing a spider in close proximity and not having something handy to kill it. So every afternoon the ritual hunt took place. Everything was checked. Everything. It took him an hour and by 4 o’clock he had had enough of the hunt.

He was just making himself another cup of tea when Joe knocked at the door.

Joe Horton was a retired farmer. Now in his seventies he was still as fit as most men twenty years younger. Joe had lived near to the Beaumont’s for ten years and he and Roger’s mother had been great friends. Joe’s son John managed the farm, but Joe took little interest in it preferring gardening, bowls, following the horses and fishing with his mate Craig who owned Opotiki’s only gymnasium. His retirement house, an old Keith Hay bungalow down near the camping ground, was in good repair and painted sky blue, a colour Roger detested, but he never said anything to Joe about it. Roger paid him thirty dollars a week to look after the grounds. Joe called the money his slush fund because the Inland Revenue Department didn’t know about it.

‘Hello Joe. What vegetables have you got for me today?’ queried Roger when he opened the door.

‘Pumpkins coming along a treat,’ said Joe. ‘Tomatoes next week. There are beans in the bag.’

He thrust the pumpkin and beans in a bag into Roger’s hands.

‘Potatoes and carrots in the box on the veranda. I’ll come by tomorrow to pick up the cheque. In a bit of a rush. Te Rapa races today. See ya then.’

Roger smiled at Joe’s retreating back. He took the pumpkin and beans into the kitchen and went back for the box on the veranda. Perhaps he would try a roast tonight, he thought as he placed the potatoes and carrots in the pantry. A roast would last two nights at least and save cooking time the next day.

He closed the door to the pantry and went over to the copper.

‘Had enough have we,’ he said to the rag doll lying forlornly at the bottom of the copper. He fetched a large old towel, fished the doll out of the copper and wrapped it in the towel then put it in the airing cupboard.

Over supper Roger toyed with the idea of remodelling the rag doll’s face. He fetched his sketchpad and pencil and drew several elongated ovals. Referring back to his original drawing of the young lady he played around with the ovals creating her face on the doll, the first with fear as the main expression, the second with a more benign look and the third had a the look of a simpleton. The eyes were distorted slightly to give them a look of craziness.

‘Well my dear,’ he said out loud. ‘Which do you think you’d prefer?’

He closed the sketchpad and went to the cupboard where he kept the spirits. He choose Napoleon brandy and poured himself a generous measure. He felt the day had been extremely successful and deserved a reward. Taking the glass and the sketchpad he went over to his favourite easy chair where his one concession to the modern age, a compact disc player sat on the table beside the chair.