The Killing

By C. P. Clarke

Two men on a collision course: one a ruthless gun for hire, and the other a gangland crime boss.
Both men are damaged souls seeking redemption, but will it come in time before the killing begins?
Jack Walters is a psychotic assassin with no conscience. His lack of emotion and detachment makes him the perfect killer. That is until he is charged with taking out his childhood friend, Lee Fletcher.
Walters looks back over his childhood growing up in West London having escaped from a juvenile prison and falling in with a gangland boss. He befriends, Fletcher, the young protégé with designs on taking over the gang. As the two grow into young men, they are a force to be reckoned with as they spread their wings wide to challenge rival gangs. Fletcher has the brains and the contacts. Walters has the killer instinct. The only people in the world they trust are each other.
As Walters receives the order to kill his friend, he knows this is to be his last kill. They are both changed men. They are both fighting their own demons over the things they have done. And Walters knows that if he doesn't complete the job there is another waiting in the wings ready to take his place, and he fears he may be on her hit list too.

• Language: English
• Publisher: C. P. Clarke
• Release date: Nov 30, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223549468

Book preview

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The soul is a terrible reality. It can be bought, and sold, and bartered away. It can be poisoned, or made perfect. There is a soul in each one of us. I know it.

The Picture of Dorian Gray

Oscar Wilde

PART ONE

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I never used to hear the demons in my head,

now I do, and they frighten me.

Jonathan Rivers

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Sin, death, and hell have set their marks on him,

And all their ministers attend on him.

King Richard III

William Shakespeare

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Therefore keep watch,

because you do not know the day or the hour.

Matthew 25:13

Preface

The handover was rushed as per usual. The traffic was awful for a Friday night. Usually, it would have been clear with most trying to knock off early for the weekend, spreading out the rush hour so that its trunks of traffic were thinner by the time he left the office. Instead, he had spent a good extra twenty minutes pumping the clutch and riding the break, praying the line of devil eyes ahead would clear so that he could get home to relieve Vicky of her charge.

The travel report on the radio omitted any news of any major hold-up in the area, which was a good thing. Nevertheless, he had found himself galloping the horses against the steering wheel as he tried to crane his neck around the crawling cars ahead to see what the delay was.

It turned out in the end to be faulty temporary traffic lights set up by some road works on one of the minor rat-runs. Actually, he hadn’t done too badly, all things considered. Had he been a few minutes later he would have been caught in the snarl-up snaking back onto the High Street and beyond, its tail rattling with frustrated horns behind him as drivers lost patience and frantically turned three pointers in the middle of the road in an attempt to flee the raging furnace of exhaust fumes. He was going to be late no matter what. She had called twice already to find out where he was.

Vicky rushed out the door as soon as he pulled the car up onto the driveway. There was a quick exchange of the relevant information: the kids are both asleep, your dinner’s in the oven, your mum phoned – can you call her back, I’m off, I’ll see you later. The exchange ended with a brief kiss on the lips as he stepped out of the car, switching places as she jumped into the driver’s seat. He wished her a good evening as she readjusted the rearview mirror, he closing the car door and stepping away backwards to allow her to reverse out.

An hour later and he was getting undressed in the bathroom. He had popped in on the kids when he first came in and found to his amazement that they were, for once, both sound asleep. They must have had an exhausting time at school for them to have conked out so early in the evening. Usually there was a battle of wills as to how many times they had to be lovingly yelled at to get back into their beds as they sought any excuse to stay up a bit longer. He had gone into both their rooms, checking on them in the dark with a quietly practised action.

Lisa, at nearly nine, the eldest by three years and quite tall for her age, was fast asleep with her right thumb in her mouth and one foot sticking out from under the covers. Gently he tucked the foot back in without waking her before checking on Jack. The just turned six-year-old was lying on his back under his Spiderman duvet, his arms held high over his head worshipping God or hypnotised by the sound and lights at a rave.

Jack’s room wasn’t as dark as Lisa’s so he was easier to see. Vicky as usual, knowing Jack to be afraid of the dark, had left his bedside lamp on so that he didn’t freak during the night, something he did often. Jack suffered the most dreadful night terrors, which scared mum and dad just as much as they did him. He would wake screaming, eyes wide open, occasionally sleepwalking, all whilst still fast asleep and with no recollection of events when day dawned. On a couple of occasions David had rushed in, responding to that terrified high-pitched screech, eager to reassure him, only to find Jack sat bolt upright wide eyed and grinning. The grin would turn to an uncomfortable chuckle before the crying began again, followed by another chuckle and a brief cry before he flopped back on the bed in a deep and unshakable sleep. Those were the worst, the ones that sent a shiver up David’s back. They were so unnerving that he would make a point of asking Jack about them the next morning, but of course, Jack had no recollection of any of it.

Without a doubt David loved his kids and would do anything for them. He was proud of what he had produced. They were both good children and they generally got on well together, with the exception of the standard bickering expected between siblings. They played well together and mostly looked out for each other. Without a doubt he felt blessed to have such a great family.

In their ten years together, he and Vicky had rowed rarely. Their few big arguments came at times of clear stress and were quickly remedied. They kept a good balance of home and work life and always made time for each other, keeping date nights and family times a priority, and trying to model it well to their kids. They were also sure not to live in each other’s pockets by making sure they kept their individual friendships. He had his pals, both in work and out of work, whom he met up with regularly for drinks or to play golf, and she had her friends, some of whom were old school mates and some she had made at the school gate. Vicky probably had more of a social life than he did, but that was okay, he didn’t resent her for it. In fact, he thought it was healthy and actively encouraged her to go out, often racing home so that she could go for a night on the town.

Tonight, Vicky and two friends were meeting at the cinema to see some rom-com that he barely knew the title of. She would have fun and tell him all about it when she got home, if he was still up, otherwise she would relay all the gossip to him in the morning over breakfast.

He ate the hearty dinner she slaved over and had left warming in the oven: a big portion of spaghetti bolognaise which he took his time over and washed down with some orange juice. He had a plan for the evening. It was pretty much his normal plan, what was now his routine: chilling out in his own space, vegging in front of the TV with a cool beer in one hand and a big bag of crisps in the other. Deep down he knew the routine (along with his wife’s good cooking and the lack of motivation to do any form of exercise) was the reason that over the past year he had put on so much weight. The chiselled jaw was now rounded, and his ripped torso was bulging with rippling loose tyres. He had let himself go a fair bit, but Vicky didn’t seem to mind. If she did then he would do something about it. He didn’t want to cause her any unhappiness, and so far, there had been no complaints.

Before he could relax, he needed a shower. He hated sitting feeling the grime of the day still lingering on him. Sitting in front of a computer screen all day always made him feel oily, he didn’t know why, it was why he tried to avoid cramming the reports late at night on the company purchased clunky truck of a computer that sat in the corner of the dining room. If he sat up staring at its flickering blue screen, he would always feel the need to wash afterwards, and he always felt wired, his brain not shutting down so that he couldn't get to sleep easily. Working late at night always left him with regret at not just sitting to crash for a couple of hours of mindless TV.

Stripping off his clothes he turned on the shower, opening the sliding door a fraction and putting his hand in to test the temperature before stepping in and letting the hot water pummel him. It gently massaged his scalp and shoulder blades as he closed his eyes, waiting a few moments before reaching across for the shampoo from the wire rack suctioned to the tiled wall. He allowed the water to splash his face as he rubbed in the thick cold gel of the shampoo.

Had it not been for the torrent brushing over his ears he may have heard the bathroom door open. Had it not been for the lather of the shampoo now dripping down and over his eyes he may have seen the figure peering at him through the steamed plastic of the shower screen. As it was, he felt a chill from the door being opened, followed by the uncanny feeling of being watched.

He tried to open his eyes quickly without thinking first to rinse off the shampoo. A costly mistake as his eyes immediately began to sting as he tried to peer down at Jack on the other side of the shower door.

Aaah! David yelled to himself as he put his face back under the shower head, the thumb and forefinger of his right hand pushing to his eyes as he pulled at the door of the shower with his left.

Jack, are you alright son? he asked as he got the door open and finally cleared part of his vision enough to see that his son had a wild, crazed smile on his face, and his eyes, though open and seeing, weren’t quite focused and awake.

Jack stepped forward. He had something in his hand. David couldn’t make it out but was sure that his son wasn’t totally aware and in full knowledge of what he was doing. He reached forward to stop his son from entering the shower and getting wet, half thinking that he should reach up and turn off the water before his boy got a shock awakening and a drenching of his pyjamas. Then he caught the glint of the object in Jack’s hand and automatically reached out to grab it. Shock streaked across his face, but the sudden forward motion caused his foot to slip on the wet plastic of the shower base, forcing David to slide forward onto the large, black handled, kitchen scissors.

The blades, which were held in a feeble grip, separated as they collided with his shoulder causing the top one to slice a deep scratch through the skin, sending his body into reflex, trying to jolt backwards against the forward motion. His feet slid again, giving way so that he spun awkwardly with his back to the shower door as a thin line of blood oozed into the flow of water.

David’s head hit hard against the plastic base, but his concern was for his son. He didn’t feel the pain as he tried to pull himself up in the confined space of the cubicle. He also didn’t feel the pain as the twin blades, poised together in a purposeful strike, fell down into the upturned right side of his back, just below the shoulder blade.

Initially, all he felt was shock. David almost believed it was he who was dreaming and not his son. He rolled himself around to see Jack, calling out to wake him, but it was too late. David's hand rose in awkward defence as the scissors found another target between the ribs on his right side. This time he felt the pain. And again, as the scissors struck down in an automated motion, Jack looking straight through him. And again. And again.

By the time the weapon fell to the ground David was already laying in a pool of more blood than water.

Bright red fluid gurgled up in his mouth. He felt his muscles contract and contort, spasming with pain. It was all too much. He couldn’t move and was wedged in to the enclosed space.

The bathroom door slid back to close behind his son, who was leaving the room to return, he hoped, back to bed.

He tried to call out a warning to Lisa, along with a cry for help, but the scissors had punctured his right lung and the attempt to draw a breath, to raise his voice, pinned him down. All his attempts spluttered out in a raspy whisper of bloody spray against the shower screen to be washed away quickly by the jets of water still flowing from above.

1

The location on the screen read France and that was okay with him, it was convenient, although not intended. It could have read Timbuktu for all he cared, so long as it didn’t give his location away.

His uncluttered screen, lit bright in the gloom before dawn, told him he had a text message. The time in large numerals, taking up most of the three-inch display, yelled that it was ridiculously early to be getting a message from anyone, not that he mattered, he was up anyway.

Walters wasn’t just up, he was stretching his legs across the hilly streets en route to The Point. This was his usual routine when he was sleep deprived in the early hours when the sun was yet to wake from its slumber over the flat edge of the world. It was a long old trek into the dewy mist that left the air constantly moist over the peninsular and under the slates of clouds lofting the sky above.

He had never measured out the distance, and cared little for the preciseness of it, but of marathon proportions it unquestionably was. It was the personal challenge, the aggressive pounding into the headwind as his lungs sucked in and heaved at the cold sea air as he climbed where mostly only cars bothered to exceed, and even then, not at this hour.

The land flattened out eventually as he reached the ascending head, having passed the Fairview Cottage and the Pulpit Inn inland, a stopping point on the rare occasions his legs failed to carry his slender muscular figure all the way round. There would always be someone he could find to hitch a ride back to town as the day dawned.

He mainly kept to the Southwest Coastal Path, meandering round the headland’s two lighthouses as he circled the open fields rising above the cliffs. Eventually he would beat a path back down into the sand as he reached Pebble Lane where, if the weather allowed, he would sink his burning feet into the sand, or the sea, and walk the short distance back to his narrow, compact, two bed semi.

The welcoming wall of his house rose steeply with the pavement, but, unlike the houses opposite, he had a driveway to park his car and his motorbike, and a covered porch to leave his shoes and coat. There was even space for his green wheelie bin, the basics of which were the envy of those whose living rooms hugged the traffic squeezing by the precariously parked cars, kissing the stone walled boundaries of the narrow street.

Each brick house rising on the slope of the hill was painted brightly or clad in its original stone, leaving a clean and countrified village setting which echoed of neighbours who always got on and met down at the local pub regularly to socialise.

If only that were true.

These days people were too busy to bother with their neighbours, something for which he was thankful. A polite hello when passing was usually as far as it went, and a few did even meet up at the pub. The young were mostly professionals who kept to themselves. The old were too infirm to haul themselves out of the tombs they had built for themselves. The only times you would see them was when they were being picked up or dropped off at the nearby Weymouth and Portland Hospital. Most of the older generation had lived here all their lives but were now having to give way to those pushed out of the city centre or just wanting to escape it. Either way he cared not for those living in his locality, and only once had to conduct business here – an old soldier, not too long ago, who had become a loose end, a thread that needed snipping. To his employer it was a problem. Fortunately, Walters was a problem solver.

The job had been easy enough: knock on the door, wait for him to answer, do the deed, and ride off back to Charmouth where he had a lockup, ditch the bike (not his own obviously, his was sat on his driveway – this one was permanently borrowed without permission). He left it to rust on the riverbed before driving back home the next day to the scandal he had created, and boy did it create some; it was a hotbed of press for days to come.

Business was business, and he didn’t batter an eyelid when the call came. He was always available, always willing to travel, and all jobs were considered, if not always taken.

The wind picked up and blew at cheeks not yet warmed to the adrenalin of his morning uphill run to the Portland Bill Lighthouse. Two things he carried: his house key, which was zipped tightly in his sweat top, and his mobile phone from which he never parted. He gripped it tightly in his left hand whilst the cold index finger of his right scrolled across the touch screen. He read the message, then took a moment to deliberate. It was a job. He was needed in London and by the eagerness of the timing, he assumed it was urgent. He sucked in the sea air and decided he had time; he needed the run to clear his head. He had taken on a lot of jobs recently and they were beginning to take their toll – he couldn’t afford to get sloppy.

He let his feet pick up the pace again. A couple more hours of obscurity off the grid would do him good before he crossed the Portland Beach Road back to where the network welcomed him home from Cherbourg across the Channel.

He would stop at one of his lockups en route and pick up some tools for the job, then drive up to London and check in, get the job spec, do the background checks, make a plan, do the recon...

His mind worked the numbers as his legs worked the uphill pace. He hummed as he ran, the familiar tune working into his step until it bubbled into a mutter from his fluttering lips ...tic tac toe, that’s the way to go, Mamma said stick ya fingers to ya head. Flat cap snap chat...

2

He felt inside the rim of his nostrils with his thumb and forefinger, not obviously but slowly and subtly with the concentration of someone watching an intense thriller or reading a gripping novel, their mind focused as their eyes dived into the swimming pool of a reality that wasn’t their own. His eyes though, separate to the goings on around the rest of his face, read his surroundings, and more importantly, the people about him.

He let his hand fall gently to his lap before lowering his eyes to examine the tips of his fingers. There were little specs of black, as he expected. He sucked at the saliva behind his teeth as the skin around his jaw drew in, showing his mild annoyance.

He hated trains, well not so much trains but rather the tube. The overground tended to have a little more room and be cleaner, maybe even less congested in comparison to the London Underground with its claustrophobic pack ‘em in like sardines mentality. The nose to armpit odour embraces. The grope my crotch invasion of personal space. The heavy dust that tasted musty and settled on the skin, adding to the grime on the collar of the pristine white shirt sitting beneath the suit. This was the dirt on his fingertips that he looked at with disgust, having taken his eye momentarily off the woman opposite.

She hadn’t noticed him at all, no one had really, except maybe the middle-aged professional woman in the conservative skirt and blouse who was trying desperately not to make a deal of the circumstances. She was trying to be polite by avoiding a rude stare, peering across the seats using the reflection in the window as the darkness of the tunnel bounced the light back at her. He caught her glimpse a couple of times as she dared to look around directly at the woman adjacent to her, her eyes catching his with a slight embarrassed smile as she acknowledged where his attention was drawn. Other than her, none paid him any notice. They were all too captivated by the object of fascination sat opposite him.

The creature of calamity, to which most of the crammed-in carriage was drawn to, was oblivious to the attention she was receiving, or else she knew but cared little. He couldn’t judge which. She was clearly too much in a world of her own for anyone to even attempt to fathom her thoughts.

He brushed off his thumb and finger on the edge of the seat and immediately regretted it. The seat felt grimy, like the grease of a frying pan had been smeared upon it and left to dry. He made a mental note to find a public washroom at the earliest convenience and freshen up. If there was one thing he despised of, it was uncleanliness, and the mess left by others infuriated him.

He reached for the other end of the free newspaper he had picked up on boarding the train, reaching for the pages he had let go of to breathe in his own skin in favour of the stew of air that floated around him. He raised the pages up high again, his elbows tucked in so as not to infract on those to his sides pushing their thighs and knees up against his. He made to read the open headlines, but in truth had no interest in them, he could read them later or not at all.

She shuffled her things again, reorganising her handbag for the umpteenth time since boarding the train, only this time she also moved her rather wide butt and spread her thighs a little too wide for anyone’s comfort. Her short skirt rode up a little too high, enough for any red-blooded man watching to avert his eyes quickly to avoid the not so pretty sight. She wore a yellow skirt and ripped tights down to bright red high heels that would have been fitting on a Soho hooker. Her top half consisted of a brown corduroy jacket spotted with a montage of stains, all of which, he was sure, had their own sad story as to the abuse that led them to be there. Beneath the jacket lay a low-cut orange vest showing more than ample cleavage bursting forth from a lacy pink bra. In truth there was more of her than her clothes could contain, for she was a well-built girl, but her clothes did her no justice.

Her age was hard to judge as her jet-black African skin hid the seams of time that would normally show on lighter flesh. Her scraggly hair hung down across the dark brown glitzy D&G sunglasses hiding her eyes, a few clumps tied up in brightly coloured wide bands. There was a silver charm around her left ankle and a couple more around her wrists on varying shades of silver and gold bracelets. On her left wrist there was a large diamond encrusted watch of a make he couldn’t read across the distance of the aisle. It didn’t help that another passenger was stood rocking back and forth disturbing his otherwise clear view with the raised brown edge of his overcoat as his arm reached high to grasp at the handhold above his head.

On her fingers sat rocks of blue and green and flat golden sovereigns, all of which he would have taken for fake had he not glimpsed the contents of her handbag.

She would be moving soon. He could feel the pull of temptation running through him. He fought it as he felt the train begin to slow towards the next station. He would have to be quick. Hesitation could cost him everything. But right now, a huge part of him wanted to hesitate, wanted him to sit and not move.

She was mad, no doubt about it. The whole carriage could see the lunacy of attention seeking that was parading before their eyes. All could see, but all pretended not to. Like so many, she was just another of today’s crazy victims of society that had been screwed up by poor parenting or abandoned by a poor health service who found her falling into a too difficult box. In a failing society she was allowed to manage her mental illness in the openness of a population that had grown accustomed to it and now cared little for their neighbour sitting next to them on the train, or in their office, or in their street, or in the bed next to them in their own homes. As if there was any doubt, one only had to listen to her rant and swear at the top of her voice as she yelled into her mobile phone, chattering gibberish to someone on the other end who apparently cared and agreed with her odd and outlandish comments cast out in her foul bloke-ish tone of East End London/African mix. All the while sorting through the contents of her handbag, taking things out, reshuffling them, putting them back, and starting again.

He closed the newspaper and folded it. He would use it for cover. He tightened his tie, pulling the shirt collar from his throat as he