Welcome to the third and final installment of BRIGHTLY SHONE THE MOON THAT NIGHT, a brand-new Heck novella written specifically for this Christmas season, and thus far at least, unpublished anywhere else. And please don’t be fooled by the festive setting. Regular readers of my Heck novels will know that he’s a cop who often walks a tightrope through some of the deadliest criminal worlds imaginable.
Other readers may be tuning in, expecting that, as usual in mid-December, I’ll be posting one of my Christmas ghost stories. Well ... this is a continuation of that custom. It’s true that I have a firm ‘no supernatural’ rule in my Heck novels, but in that chilling spirit of Yuletide fiction, I still went all out to make this particular adventure as scary and horrific as possible.
Hopefully, I’ve succeeded.
Just a final reminder that this is Part Three of BRIGHTLY SHONE THE MOON THAT NIGHT. If you haven’t already done so, it would be much better if you were to scroll down this column and read Parts One and Two first. You’ll find them respectively at December 8 and December 15.
Happy reading, everyone. All the best for Christmas and the New Year.
BRIGHTLY SHONE THE MOON THAT NIGHT
3
Heck and Gemma sidled through the open gate, halting to examine the cut chain. In the light of Heck’s torch, it had been recently and cleanly sliced. If that wasn’t evidence enough of illegal entry, the tyre-tracks ploughing through the snow to the other side came to rest about twenty yards into the field, where a vehicle had been abandoned. It was a beaten-up old rust-bucket of a van, the VRM alone dating it back twelve years. Its back door hung open, and when Heck shone his torch inside, he saw a bare metal floor covered with rags and bits of wire.
They moved round to the front, Gemma now on her phone to
CAD, running a PNC check. While she awaited a response, Heck tested the
driver’s door. It wasn’t locked, and opened on a cab filled with old
food-wrappers, crumbs and empty pop tins. The partition wall behind where the
driver and his two co-pilots would sit was covered with faded centrefolds from
lower-end girlie mags of years past.
‘Stolen three nights back,’ Gemma said, pocketing her phone.
‘From Acton.’
sections of which not encrusted with snow were worn down until there was no tread remaining. ‘We’ve got four-wheel drive police vehicles marooned until a tow-truck comes, and these bastards just cruise through it all.’
‘Luck of the Devil,’ Gemma replied.
He turned to face the open field. ‘So, what’s Christmas
Land?’
‘Think I read something about it,’ she said. ‘Pretty sure
it’s one of these new seasonal theme parks. You know, farmers set unused land
aside for them. You get rock festivals in summer, ghostly fun at Halloween,
this time of year … Christmas Land.’
As she spoke, the moon emerged from a patch of cloud, and
turned the level landscape a luminous white. Immediately, about four-hundred
yards away, they spotted the black, huddled outlines of unlit structures:
stalls and tents most likely, probably a few of those flatpack Germanic-style
buildings that always appeared in town centres for Christmas fairs.
Heck extinguished his torch. They no longer needed it, plus
he didn’t want to warn the suspects that he and Gemma were here – though if
these goons were even vaguely alert, they’d surely have noticed his car pull up
on the other side of the gate. Even so, they advanced stealthily, trying to
keep the crackle of their footfalls to a minimum – only for Heck’s phone to
start ringing in his pocket. It was a straightforward ringtone and wasn’t
pitched at an especially high volume, but in this frozen air its jangle no
doubt carried for hundreds of yards.
He turned an apologetic look to Gemma, who simply shrugged,
before putting it to his ear. ‘DC Heckenburg.’
‘At last.’ It was Gwen Straker. ‘What’s going on, please?’
Again, Heck activated the speaker, so Gemma could also hear.
‘We’re off the grid a little, ma’am,’ he admitted.
‘Somewhere in Essex, five miles from junction 7a on the M11. Place called
Christmas Land.’
Gwen didn’t initially say anything. Some SIOs would have
blown their tops straight away, envisaging a big administrative mess, and
demanding to know why the first-responder to two major crimes (who also
happened to be the first investigating officer in attendance), had left
everything in the care of others while he followed a lead that had taken him
right out of the Metropolitan Police area, but Gwen Straker trusted her
detectives enough to at least wait for explanations.
‘I received intel,’ he said, ‘that the proceeds of several
armed robberies carried out by Ronnie Askew, Leroy Butler and Keith O’Malley
were buried in the field where this thing, Christmas Land, now appears to have
been set up. The obvious assumption was that our three suspects for tonight,
who we think we’ve identified as Gideon Goodfellow, Damien Goodfellow, and
Gideon’s girlfriend, Janet King, would bring Doreen Butler here so that she
could show them exactly where the cash is buried.’
‘Have you got a visual on these three targets yet?’
‘Not yet, ma’am.’
He and Gemma continued advancing, Christmas Land gradually
emerging into view. The closer they got, the more of those Germanic-style
buildings it seemed to possess. This was clearly no small affair knocked
together in half a day.
‘But it’s not beyond the bounds of possibility that our
quarry has eyes on us,’ he added.
There was a brief silence, and then: ‘Mark, I want you and
Gemma to hold back … okay? At least until support arrives.’
‘Ma’am …’ He tried to keep the frustration from his voice.
‘They killed Mary Byrne after deciding she didn’t know anything. They then took
Doreen Butler hostage, having set a fire-trap in her house, knowing full well
that if anyone tripped it, the whole place would burn, along with any children
who night be hiding there. Most likely that was to make Doreen realise she was
on a clock and that she had to take them to the exact spot as soon as possible.
But what this all adds up to is how ruthless these guys are. Once they’ve found
the loot, I’m sure they’ll just wipe Doreen out as another inconvenient
witness.’
‘Mark …’ He could hear the DI’s uncharacteristic stress.
She’d always been a cool-headed manager, but even she was struggling with
conditions so unprecedented that most of her usual options had been taken off
the table. ‘Look, Mark … if they’re digging down to find this cash, that’ll
take time. Doreen Butler won’t be in danger until they uncover it.’
‘I was told it’s only under four feet of earth.’
‘Earth that is currently frozen solid.’
Heck glanced at Gemma, and shook his head.
‘She has a point,’ Gemma replied. ‘Could take them a good
couple of hours.’
‘Seriously?’ he said, openly annoyed with them both. ‘We just hang around
in this field?’
‘I want you to hold back, Mark,’ Gwen reasserted. ‘At
least until support arrives.’
‘Ma’am … I wouldn’t be surprised if Doreen Butler is
suffering right now. To start with, she may still be in her nightclothes, so
she could be freezing. Secondly, they’ll do anything they want to her because
they think they’re going to get away with this … and you know, if we dawdle,
they might. They didn’t take a chance with Jenny Askew in case she had some yob
in the house who could give them a hard time – so there’s no evidence we can
use there. Likewise, in committing arson at Doreen Butler’s house, they’ll have
eradicated many clues …’
‘Mark … I’m at Mary Byrne’s right now. We have a full and
complete crime scene.’
‘Mary Byrne lived a troubled life,’ he argued. ‘Drugs,
alcohol, endless inappropriate partners. All Goodfellow and his people would
have had to do was be reasonably careful not to leave anything that would
obviously implicate them, and it wouldn’t take an especially clever defender to
make it look like she’d been murdered by someone else.’
Again, Gwen didn’t immediately reply. As before, he could
sense her frustration, marooned in that appalling little flat, the minutes
ticking by while she waited helplessly for even the most basic crime scene
services.
‘Bloody hell, ma’am!’ he said. ‘We’re not just concerned
citizens … we’re coppers! We can’t stand by and let whatever’s happening here
happen!’
‘Alright!’ she snapped back. ‘I hear that. But be careful,
the pair of you … you understand?’
‘Affirmative, ma’am.’
‘I’ll get some
support to you ASAP.’
‘Thanks, ma’am. I’ll speak to you later.’
Heck cut the call and shoved the phone back into his pocket.
As he did, a range of festive lights shimmered to life ahead of them. The
frozen air was suddenly filled with Christmas voices, slightly tinny thanks to
a crackly old tannoy, but nevertheless singing their joyous way through a
succession of carols. The cops could only halt in fascination as Christmas
Land, now only a hundred yards ahead, glittered and sang. The place was much, much bigger than they’d expected. It virtually bisected their vision, running off
across the fields in various directions.
‘You think the lightning tree’s still going to be here?’
Gemma said quietly. ‘I mean, if they went to this much trouble, wouldn’t they
just cut the damn thing down, or even uproot it?’
Heck was thinking along similar lines.
In truth, it seemed more than likely.
And without the lightning tree as a marker, the burial spot
would be undetectable.
Which meant that Doreen Butler’s ‘good couple of hours’
could rapidly diminish to no time at all.
Without needing to communicate this to each other, they
dashed forward side by side, progressing about fifty yards before suddenly realising to
their bewilderment that a vehicle was approaching across the snowy waste on their
left. They spun to face it, seeing the bright lights of what initially looked
like a jeep trundling towards them. But it was only when they heard the
booming, stereophonic laughter – Ho Ho Ho … Ho Ho Ho! – that Heck realised the
truth. A truth he confirmed by flicking his torch on, and seeing two parallel
lines of steel glinting in the snow just ahead; the tracks for a miniature
railway line.
They backed off a couple of yards as the vehicle drew
closer, now able to see the wording mounted on its front in cheerily glowing
letters:
Santa’s Toy Train
Its engine resembled a motorised sled rather than a locomotive, with a large,
white-bearded figure seated where the driver would normally be, while to the
left of him, a spangly Christmas tree stood upright from a bulging sack.
Ho Ho Ho … Ho Ho Ho!
Behind it came what looked like ten open-topped cars,
decorated down their sides with fairy lights, which cast towering, multi-hued
reflections across the pristine white terrain. It was moving at no more than twenty
miles an hour, and their immediate perception was that, aside from the figure of
Santa, which was clearly made from fibreglass and glowing from within, his
mouth fixed open, his red-mittened right hand raised in a gesture
of greeting, there was nobody else on board – until it passed directly in front
of them, and two cars behind the sled, they saw a second figure slumped
sideways in one of the seats.
It was the size and shape of an adult human, but it was
stiff, unmoving, and rather appallingly, had been completely wrapped in
Christmas paper.
Gemma lurched forward instinctively.
‘Hey, whoa!’ Heck shouted.
He tried to follow, but, in his lace-up leather shoes, slid
in the snow and fell full length. In contrast, Gemma, whose slender heels
spiked her to the ice, was able to totter forward to the edge of the line. The
train was almost gone already, the last couple of its cars passing. She jumped
forward without thinking, planting her right foot on the final car’s
running-board, catching hold of the top of its door. Fleetingly, she was in a
very precarious position. The train wasn’t exactly speeding, but with the air
deep-frozen, the added wind-chill brought hot tears to her eyes. In
addition, she was jolted and buffeted, and had to cling on with numb fingers –
only then realising that Heck wasn’t with her. She risked turning round, the
pinpoint of her heel sliding on its ice-slick perch, and saw his dark shape
getting back to its feet but rapidly receding behind her.
Ultimately, it didn’t matter.
She knew what she had to do.
Each of the open-topped cars comprised two facing seats,
each with room for two people sitting abreast and only a narrow foot-space in
between. While the exteriors of the cars were painted green, the interiors were
done entirely in lush red velvet. The doors had brass bolts, and brass handles
for opening and closing. Of course, Gemma wasn’t going to chance opening the
door while standing on the running board – it only came to waist-height anyway,
so, nimble and lithe thanks to regular gym sessions, she comfortably straddled
the top of it.
Heck was no longer in sight, snow-covered fir trees having
closed in. The railway line now appeared to be curving south, no doubt
following the boundary of the theme park.
As she stood there, deliberating, the phone rang in her
pocket.
‘That was a clever move,’ Heck said, when she put it to her
ear. ‘You’ve split us up.’
‘Hey … you know what we saw,’ she retorted, raising her
voice to be heard over the clack and clatter of the wheels. ‘There’s a body near
the front of this train.’
‘Have you made your way forward to it yet?’
‘No, but I’m about to …’
‘Gemma …’ He sounded uneasy. ‘Wouldn’t it be better if you
just got off? It’s soft snow, you’re not going fast … ’
‘And is that would you’d do, Mark?’ she wondered. ‘When
Doreen Butler may be at the front of this train, all tied up?’
‘If that is Doreen Butler, there’s no saying what state
she’ll be in.’
‘I’m aware of that.’
‘But they didn’t put
her in there just for a laugh. And that train didn’t start running
automatically when the rest of the electrics came on, because I smelled diesel
when it passed us. That means this is a set-up. Probably designed to divert us
– which it has done. Maybe even to divide us – which it’s also done. And if
we’re divided, of course, we’re easier to …’
‘Mark, I’m here now,’ she said. ‘I might as well at least
check.’
‘Which may be exactly what they want.’
‘Look,’ she said, ‘if this is an ambush, they can’t have
planned it in any detail. At best, they can only have realised we were here a
couple of minutes ago. Anyway, I’m obviously following some kind of route round
the perimeter of the park … I’ll be back where you are in a few minutes.’
The dark, snow-clad trees had now closed in from both sides.
It admittedly looked sinister, though she knew she was correct. This was a
miniature railway, for Heaven’s sake. She’d be through it all and back to the
start in a fairly short time.
‘No way!’ Heck was breathing hard, which meant that he was
walking again. ‘If I’m not hanging back for Gwen Straker, the best DI I’ve ever
worked under, I’m not hanging back for Santa’s bloody Toy Train. Look, Gemma …
if you’re intent on making your way to the front, try and climb into the
driver’s seat. I know it’s probably automated, but there may be a simple
ignition switch. When it gets to the other side of the park, it’ll probably
pass through some kind of station. Try and stop it there, and I’ll meet you.’
‘Okay …’
‘Just be careful, yeah?’
‘I will.’
‘I’d still rather you got off, but if you’re determined not
to, stay in contact.’
‘I’ll let you know how I get on,’ was her terse reply.
She’d bitten down on what she’d really wanted to say, which
was that if Mark was in her shoes right now, he wouldn’t even consider getting
off the train without checking the body first, regardless of whether he
suspected it was a trick.
Not for the first time, Gemma wondered about the wisdom of
dating a fellow detective.
It was convenient, for sure – the convenience factor was
massive given that non-job suitors could never be expected to tolerate your
work patterns or even get close to understanding the pressures you were under.
But so often there was a hidden price-tag.
At first, she’d thought that wouldn’t matter, because the
truth was that she’d been fascinated by Mark Heckenburg from the moment she’d
met him. It wasn’t just his wolfish looks and his rogue charm, it was his
energy and enthusiasm for the job, which was strangely at odds with his innate
rebel streak. Add the easy affability and blue-collar toughness, and he was
unlike any copper she’d ever met, so many of which were either London boys of
the bad old school, or new breed careerists who did the job to the letter but
never adventured. But increasingly – and the house-fire earlier that evening
had been another case in point – she worried that Mark was starting to show his
true persona, namely that he was a northern lad at heart, whose first instinct
was still to protect his woman.
On one hand, Gemma didn’t totally mind that. It showed that
he cared for her. But it was hardly ideal when she too was a police officer, at
least as determined as he was to make a big impact in the world of
law-enforcement.
Though at present, it was all she could do not to make a big
impact of a different sort.
Getting from the back end of the train to the front wasn’t
as easy as she’d expected. In purely physical terms, it wasn’t a great
challenge; the gaps between the cars were perhaps half a foot, but the cars
were linked together by flexible metal joints, so even if she slipped down
between them, the likelihood was that she’d find one such joint with her foot
and be able to stabilise herself again. But as she clambered steadily from one
car to the next, that extra wind-chill was vicious. Her fingers and cheeks were
now bloodless. On top of that, the ride was uneven, bouncing and lurching as it
passed through fathomless ranks of dense, snow-packed trees. At least the front of the vehicle was soon in view. She could already see the
glow of the lights on the Christmas tree alongside the Santa Claus driver.
Ho Ho Ho … Ho Ho Ho!
The mechanical voice came back to her faintly. But the fact that she could hear it was good. Another few moments of progressing forward,
and she sighted the figure that had caused her so much concern. It lay sideways
in the second car from the front; and no, she hadn’t made a mistake – as the
train’s side-lights now revealed, it was parcelled like a Christmas present.
Gemma forged on, and was one car behind the motionless form,
when the vehicle jerked violently. She grabbed the left-hand door, while the
packaged outline ahead jolted out of place, only to then fall lifelessly back
into its former position, clunking on the woodwork.
‘Doesn’t sound too good,’ she muttered to herself.
She considered Heck’s warning that the body had been
deliberately placed on this train and the train deliberately set in motion as a
form of diversion, or maybe worse.
Inevitably, she paused before climbing over into that
next car.
They’d already walked blindly into one trap, and in
consequence someone’s house had burned down. What might the outcome be here?
She pivoted where she stood, scanning around her, but still
saw only snowbound trees and occasionally, when they broke apart, moonlit snow
blanketing farmland. She and Heck been forcibly separated, yes, but it was
difficult to see how she was in danger.
She clambered on, crossing the last gap and slumping down
onto the seat where the festively-wrapped figure lolled.
It was an abhorrence, of course; the whole thing. Gemma was
nearly seven years into the job, and near-enough thought she’d seen everything.
But a murder victim wrapped up like a Christmas present was something new. She used the light from her phone to examine the figure more closely. The paper
covering it was bright red and speckled with holly leaves, but it was
immediately evident that an adult person lay underneath. The outlines of arms,
legs, feet, shoulders – even breasts, when she looked closely – were
recognisable. There was no obvious sign that blood or any other bodily fluid
had seeped out, but she couldn’t be certain of that.
‘Doreen?’ she said, raising her voice again. ‘Are you
conscious, love? Doreen … if you’re hurt, just hold on. I’m a police officer
and I’m going to try to get this paper off you, okay?’
When she touched the form it was rigid, but the paper came
away easily. Working around the head first, she found joins with her gloved
fingers and simply tore it back, though beneath the red layer, there was yellow
one, this – in an irony of ironies – patterned with cherubs singing from carol
sheets as they fluttered around the manger in which the Christ-Child lay. As
this last lining was peeled back, Gemma caught glimpses of deathly pale flesh.
Which flummoxed her.
Because Doreen Butler, like her husband, was
second-generation West Indian.
Had the maniacs claimed another victim then?
Gemma tore at the wrapping frantically, rending what
remained of it away – as she did, finding herself in possession of a baffling heavy-duty staple, some three inches in length – before exposing
the whole of the victim’s head.
It was some relief to find herself looking at a mannequin;
life-sized and female, but at this proximity rather basic, the facial features
crudely carved in wood, the eyes and mouth little more than blotches of blue
and red paint. What passed for hair was a bunch of yellow strings, little more
than doll’s hair, fastened to the scalp with more of those overlarge staples.
She sat back, perplexed, letting the doll-thing drop. Again,
it struck the door with a clunk.
On one hand, this was good. It meant they didn’t have a
second murder victim.
Not yet, at least.
Which was when she sensed the shadow lying over her.
Gemma twirled around, but the light from the front of
Santa’s Toy Train was blocked by the figure that had risen into view from the
next and last car along, where it had evidently been crouching out of sight. It
was tall – slightly taller than Heck, and though of a lean build, it looked
rangy and powerful in its loose-fitting harlequin suit, topped as it was by a
jester’s coxcomb and what looked like a full-head mask depicting the brutal
features of Mr Punch.
*
For the first few minutes of his advance into Christmas
Land, Heck could have been at any town centre festive market.
Narrow, snowy footways led between wooden, hut-like stalls,
again built and painted in the Germanic or Scandinavian style, and though
closed at present and with steel lattices over their fronts, all clearly on the
same electrical circuit as they’d lit up simultaneously. They offered a
variety of seasonal goodies, from exotic cheeses to pancakes and waffles, from
warm cider and mulled wine to Bavarian Gluhwein and Feuerzangenbowle, from
Cumbrian sausages and hot chocolate to strudels, pretzels and egg nog punch.
From some central point he hadn’t yet reached, he heard that choir again, men and women singing harmoniously together, now having moved on from carols to more recent Christmas hits: Santa Claus is Coming to Town, Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas and It’s the Most Wonderful Time of the Year. At a junction between ‘Lapland Leatherware’ and ‘Jams, Jellies and Chutneys’, he halted to listen, wondering if a male voice he could hear crooning along might not actually be on the tape but was in fact someone singing separately. It galvanised him to search more thoroughly, upping his pace, scanning every signpost for something that might sound like a railway station.
From some central point he hadn’t yet reached, he heard that choir again, men and women singing harmoniously together, now having moved on from carols to more recent Christmas hits: Santa Claus is Coming to Town, Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas and It’s the Most Wonderful Time of the Year. At a junction between ‘Lapland Leatherware’ and ‘Jams, Jellies and Chutneys’, he halted to listen, wondering if a male voice he could hear crooning along might not actually be on the tape but was in fact someone singing separately. It galvanised him to search more thoroughly, upping his pace, scanning every signpost for something that might sound like a railway station.
‘Toytown Halt’ seemed promising; this sent him to the right
and felt as though it was taking him away from the village centre. But that
didn’t matter unduly. The priority was still getting back with Gemma. Speaking
of which, he took his phone out to call her for an update – and was promptly slapped on the side of the head by a snowball.
It was a stinging blow, and it brought him angrily
about-face.
All he saw were more white-carpeted passageways winding off
between the fairy-lit stalls. He pivoted in a full circle, but only when he
was back to where he’d been before did he catch sight of someone: a sturdy
figure in a top-hat lumbering at speed down an alley on the left, and
vanishing through a narrow gate in a slatted wooden fence.
Almost as though purposely, the gate was left hanging open behind
him.
Another trap?
It was frustrating the hell out of Heck that their opponents
seemed constantly to be several steps ahead. Maybe it was some minor
consolation that on a night like this, especially when he’d been forced to wing
the enquiry from the outset, he and Gemma had managed to make it here and find
themselves within grabbing distance of the villains – but he still had to go
through that gate, and no doubt expose himself to whatever was waiting on the
other side.
He strode warily forward. Each time he passed a gap between
stalls, or another avenue leading off at an angle, he slowed to peer down it
first. But increasingly now, a spectral, sparkling mist – infinitesimal
ice-crystals suspended in the frozen air – cast a shimmery gauze over the
labyrinthine passages, progressively obscuring his vision. He also checked
behind him, more than once. Even in snow so hard-frozen that the lightest footfall
would crunch, he didn’t put it past these people to try and sneak up from behind, and as the ice-fog rose, it would get easier still for them.
But nothing of this sort happened before he reached the gate
in question.
He opened it with his foot, and peeked through.
Initially, what he saw was confusing. It was an open space
at the foot of a snowy slope rising on the left; not a steep slope, quite
gentle in fact, but in due course reaching an elevation of thirty or forty
feet. Initially, knowing that he was on flat farmland, this confused Heck.
Where had such a gradient come from?
But then he realised.
It was artificial, a ramp – possibly a miniature ski slope
or toboggan run, erected on top of an under-structure, perhaps with a coat of
Dendix or Snowflex on the surface to provide slick, fast running (though the
present conditions made that redundant). Heck wandered cautiously out there.
Looking left and right, he saw that the slope was hemmed in on either side by
more slatted wooden fencing, which gave it a breadth of about fifty or sixty
yards. When he glanced uphill, he couldn’t see the top of it owing to the
thickening mist. There was one curiosity, though: dotted up and down the slope at various levels and points of longitude, there were upright plywood flats,
roughly humanoid in shape in that they seemingly had shoulders and heads (with
hats on), though they were exaggeratedly large in terms of height and width.
Heck couldn’t count how many there were, maybe twenty in total. Possibly, they
were intended to form some kind of obstacle-course for the downhill racers,
though at present, they, or one of them at least, could also be providing a
hiding place.
Warily, he trudged uphill towards the nearest.
When he actually reached it, he gave it wide berth as he
circled round to the front. There was no one concealed there, but now he saw
something else. While, from behind, these figures were nothing but bare wood,
from the front, this one at least, and probably the others too, had been
painted as a snowman – a jovial one of course, with a happy face, a pipe in its
mouth, a scarf at its throat and a top-hat on its head.
As Heck stared at it, something struck the snowman in the
middle of its chest.
It wasn’t a heavy blow, and whatever the missile was, it
dropped into the snow with a soft plop. Heck glanced back up the slope. Nothing
moved up there save curling twists of mist.
He strode forward, bent down and picked the object up.
It was a white beanbag.
Immediately, it struck him what this place was, because he’d
seen something similar on a television show.
It was a Snowball Range. What would normally happen here was
that participating families would ascend to the top of the slope by a stair at
the back, where there was a gas-operated launcher, something like a massive
blowpipe, which they would load with snowballs – i.e. white beanbags – and use
to take shots at staff members dressed as elves, whose job was to dart back and
forth between the wooden snowmen. Every time a staff-member was struck,
harmlessly of course, he or she would be out of the game, but if any of them
made it to be the top, the shooter – usually some cheeky,
rascally kid – would himself be eliminated. Prizes were only won if the elves
all fell before the shooter did.
Great fun for the youngsters, and even under the current
circumstances it didn’t seem much of a threat to Heck. That was until a second
missile was projected downhill at him. This one came twirling much more
quickly, a dark blur against the white backdrop, and missed him by inches,
striking the snowman and smashing its plywood head clean off.
Heck promptly dropped to all fours, aware that in his dark
trousers and heavy, dark blue parka, he himself would be clearly visible. He
scrambled sideways, getting as far from the damaged figure as he could before
jumping to his feet and running uphill towards the nearest next snowman. Before
he reached it, another projectile came hurtling through the mist. He dived into
the snow, and it skimmed over him closely, landing with a soft but heavy thud a
few yards away.
When Heck spotted it jutted upright in the snow; it looked
like a bottle of German lager.
‘You’ve got to be kidding,’ he said to himself.
The bastards were bombarding him with beer?
It might even have seemed funny – he got up again, and as he
slogged on, he almost laughed. It showed a certain style, he supposed. But it
would be no joke if one of those bottles hit him. These beanbag-launchers were
designed to propel lightweight missiles a considerable distance, which meant
that they packed significant power. A glass bottle full of liquid would
travel like a rocket.
As if in proof of this, the snowman he next took shelter
behind was struck full in the chest with shattering force, breaking at the
ankles and sagging backwards on top of him.
Heck didn’t immediately scramble somewhere else. He kept low
and gazed back towards the gateway he’d come in through. The obvious thing to
do was scamper back over there, work his way around to the front entrance of
the Snowball Range, and ascend the steps. Except that if this lunatic was
waiting at the top of those steps, and he had a crate of German lager, it
wouldn’t be difficult for him to hammer those bottles down onto Heck from
directly overhead. Either that, or simply descend the steps himself first, and
depart the scene before Heck even arrived. In addition, that gate was now a
hundred yards distant, and that was a hundred yards of open ground, whereas if
he kept going forward, at least there’d be cover. He craned his head up, and
saw the next plywood figure about thirty yards ahead of him on the left, though
another stood equidistant on the right.
Instead of beating a retreat, Heck opted to try and
bamboozle the marksman, jumping up and zigzagging forward towards the space
between the two figures, his eyes focussed on the pall of mist covering the top
of the slope – out of the middle of which, a black flash emerged as another
bottle came whistling down. This time, he’d even heard the sound of the weapon
being triggered; a hollow glop, again like the noise a blowpipe makes.
At least it gave him time to dart behind the figure on his
left.
The beer bottle cartwheeled past, ploughing a deep trench in
the snow. Heck peeked around the snowman, looking for his next route – and
jerked back immediately as another bottle came arcing down. This one impacted
on the woodwork just above his head, detonating in a shower of glass and foam.
The snowman shuddered violently, but remained upright.
Heck took a moment to compose himself as he crouched there.
Only pure luck had prevented him being brained just then. It
also indicated that the guy could load and fire quickly.
‘Goodfellow, this is sheer lunacy!’ he bellowed uphill. ‘You
realise we’ve got more and more units closing in on this place? You’re only
going to make things worse for yourself!’
‘Ten green bottles standing on the wall!’ came a tuneful
response. ‘And if one green bottle should accidentally fall …’
Glop.
Another missile followed a downward-curving trajectory, and
struck the snowman as Heck scrambled away from it, this time smashing clean
through. Heck swerved uphill towards the next figure, now running frantically. As he did, the fourth projectile
in almost as many seconds spun its way down, and this one hit him cleanly …
*
Gemma tried to jump to her feet, but the figure of Punch
took a massive swipe at her.
She glimpsed steel in its red-gloved fist, and more by
instinct than design, dropped to her knees, the huge, heavy blade of what
looked like a Bowie knife skimming the air, decapitating the Christmas-wrapped
mannequin in a single chunking blow. Absurdly, she then remained crouched – as if
that could possibly protect her. Half a second later, as the shock subsided,
she tried to get up again – only for her assailant to grab her hair with his
free hand and yank her to her feet.
She stood helpless, staring at him.
He released her hair, only to grab her throat.
It was a crushing, vicelike grip, trapping the air in her
chest, bruising her to the back of her larynx. She struggled and grappled with
his arm as he lifted her off her feet, and then, to her incredulity, clean out
of her own car, flinging her down into the foot-space alongside him. She struck
the frontward seat with her back. It was covered with velvet, but there was
wood underneath. The nauseating blow shot shivers of pain up her spine, but
there was no time for self-pity. The nightmare figure turned again to face her,
swinging his free hand down to deal a stunning blow to the side of her head. Lights literally flashed before Gemma’s eyes. She was too
stunned to resist as he grabbed the roll-neck of her sweater and lugged her
back to her feet, holding her there as though to scrutinise her from close up
with those sightless pits of his. Smoking breath wove dragon-like from the
nostrils of his mask, filling her face. The mingled aromas of sweat, onions and
alcohol was hideous; Gemma would have gagged if he hadn’t been crushing her
throat again.
As she came round, she tried to kick his groin, but he was
wise to that, clamping his knees together, and in response, squeezing her
throat all the harder.
In Gemma’s right-hand vision, that terrible blade
reappeared, a Bowie knife without doubt, its cross-guard glinting in the
moonlight, the ‘clip point’ tip resting on her cheek. Horrific images flooded
her mind: Mary Byrne, who’d been cut up, down, left and right before she’d
died, with particular attention paid to her face …
‘No, please …’ she stammered. ‘Please … Damien!’
If he’d been about to start eviscerating her, this certainly delayed him.
There was a brief, wondering silence, his grotesquely masked
head cocked to one side as he regarded her with new interest: this handsome
woman, who he’d never seen before let alone knew why she was here – and yet who was aware of his name.
It was all the distraction Gemma needed to jam the thick,
three-inch staple into the underside of his wrist. He squawked, yanking his
hand back, unintentionally releasing her.
Gemma didn’t wait for him to grab her again, but launched
herself across the narrow car, and leapt overboard. It was unfeasibly dangerous
given that she couldn’t even see what she was jumping onto, but she’d gambled
that it would be snow.
That might have cushioned her fall to a degree, but the
impact of collision still knocked the stuffing out of her. Winded, she rolled
for yards through plumes of frosty white powder, before clambering dazedly to
her feet and stumbling off in the first direction she found herself facing. As
the train thundered away into the distance, she risked a backward glance.
Punch had also leapt clear.
He too had fallen and rolled.
He too was back on his feet and running, blade still in
hand.
Whimpering, Gemma was goaded to greater efforts. It was
still a struggle, each step plunging into snow past the tops of her
ankle-boots, but ahead now the evergreens parted, and she saw the outer wall to
a tall, timber structure. She’d figured that the train would never stray too
far from the outskirts of Christmas Land – and this looked like proof of that,
though the building was bigger than anything she’d expect to find on a normal
fairground. With its low-slung roof and eaves hung with icicles, it resembled a
Viking long-hall, but there were no doors or windows, so she had to work her way along the length of it, glancing back again and seeing Punch
coming in pursuit. He looked somewhat more exhausted than she was – if nothing
else, she was well-fed and gym-trained, whereas this loser allegedly spent much
of his time on the street – though after breaking from the trees, he was now
crossing the open ground diagonally, which enabled him to gain on her.
There were few better times to come to a door.
It was narrow and fixed with a wooden bar, which Gemma lifted with ease. The door swung outward, and a rank, musky heat spilled from the darkness within. She blundered forward anyway, and immediately felt large, furry, four-legged bodies on all sides of her, though once she was truly among them, they scattered, their hoofed feet thundering on straw-coated wooden boards. She was buffeted and jostled as the beasts sped away, but none of them knocked her over. Disoriented by the cloying blackness, she pulled her phone out, hoping that its fascia would create some degree of light.
It was narrow and fixed with a wooden bar, which Gemma lifted with ease. The door swung outward, and a rank, musky heat spilled from the darkness within. She blundered forward anyway, and immediately felt large, furry, four-legged bodies on all sides of her, though once she was truly among them, they scattered, their hoofed feet thundering on straw-coated wooden boards. She was buffeted and jostled as the beasts sped away, but none of them knocked her over. Disoriented by the cloying blackness, she pulled her phone out, hoping that its fascia would create some degree of light.
It wasn’t much, but it was enough to reveal a group of
reindeer at the nearest end of the barn-like interior, eyes glinting as they
nervously watched her. She looked the other way, but saw only empty stalls,
each one hung with a green leather harness with bells attached. Just past
those, there was a pen heaped with hay, a pitchfork propped against its fence.
There had to be another way out. The door she’d come in
through was a single, and there needed to be an egress for the animals. But
beyond the pen hung only opaque darkness.
With a resounding CRASH, the single door was thrown open.
Gemma spun back round, pocketing her phone so as not to give
her position away.
The gangling form of Punch filled the rectangle of
snow-light. Clouds of his breath hung around him as he lumbered forward,
wheezing.
Gemma backed away, hoping and praying that he couldn’t see
her.
He whirled with a growl as one of the reindeer darted past
behind him. Even though it moved in a blur of speed, Punch lashed at it with
his heavy blade. There was a thunk, and a freshly-severed antler landed a yard
from Gemma’s feet.
She ran for the pen, staggering through clots of trampled
straw.
He heard her, and gave noisy chase. Gemma struck the fence
surrounding the pen before she saw it, but the adrenaline denied her any pain.
She grappled her way along it, hand over hand, finally locating the pitchfork, seizing it and whirling round like a soldier with a bayonet. As she did, she
pulled her phone out again.
The costumed figure blundered into the pall of greenish
light, and halted, having spied the pitchfork’s needle prongs.
‘Back off!’ Gemma shouted. ‘You want me to stick you with
this? I damn well will!’
The pits of his eyes fixed on her; more thick breath gushed
from his borehole nostrils. Then he lunged. With no other choice, Gemma lunged
back, but Punch was quicker. Sweeping the blade down, he caught the pitchfork’s
shaft guillotine-style, lopping it clean.
Gemma gazed in disbelief at her truncated weapon.
Punch came on in a fury.
She spun away from him, fleeing pell-mell. All that lay
ahead was the shed’s darkest recess, but her eyes had now attuned just
sufficiently to help her pick out the heavy double-doors at the back of it.
Again, there was only a single bar holding them, but this was on the
inside. She lifted it and threw it away, before driving forward with her
elbows. The doors opened and a blast of winter air surged in.
But when Gemma tottered outside, a surreal sight greeted
her.
A row of seven-foot tall Christmas trees, glittering with
on/off, multi-coloured lights, trailed away both to left and right. Festive
music, sung in eerie, elfin voices, issued from the midst of them. The wall of
foliage was only ten feet away, and could easily provide concealment, but when
Gemma ran towards it, she saw that it stood behind a chest-high wrought-iron
fence.
Desperate, she veered right, again hearing those heavy feet
clumping in pursuit.
The way ahead was not at all clear, a spectral dimness
rising from the lying snow. But when a gateway appeared on her left, she ducked
through it. She’d half expected to enter some small section of garden or
parkland, perhaps see handsome topiary capped in white. But in fact, it was
nothing so elegant, nor so relaxing,
It was maze.
A maze made from singing trees …
*
The flying bottle only hit Heck on the heel of his shoe, but
it was a furious, heavy blow, and it felt as if he’d been kicked by a horse. It
knocked him off balance and twirled him around, so that he sprawled full-length
onto his back. As he got up again and limped on towards the snowman, the next
missile got there in front of him.
With a BOOM, it took the snowman’s head off even as Heck
dropped down behind it.
Another bottle followed immediately after, hitting the
snowman dead-centre, splitting it apart, so that it fell across him in two
halves.
Completely exposed again, Heck had no option but to keep
blundering up the slope.
At least he’d now ascended sufficiently to be able to see
the top, which was a steel gantry with a fence along the front of it and a
canopy above. By the looks of its vague outline, the beanbag-launcher was
located in the centre. But it was still a good fifty yards away.
He veered across the middle of the slope, aiming for the
next snowman. Another bottle came whipping down. He threw himself flat, and it
swished over his head with less than a single inch to spare, before
burying itself in the snow.
But that, strangely, was the last one.
When Heck made it to his next point of concealment, nothing
else happened.
He sat it out for several taut seconds, increasingly frozen
thanks to the snow that had travelled up his sleeves and down his socks, and
now was melting through his trousers.
But there was no further attack.
In the end, he ventured out and stood there in the open,
literally inviting another shot.
Still nothing.
‘Bastard’s done a runner,’ he decided, scrambling forward
and uphill as quickly as he was able. Either he’d run out of ammo, or he’d
realised that it was pointless, or he was now moving onto the next phase of his
plan. Whichever, Heck ascended the remaining distance to the fence with no
difficulty, apart from the frigid air sawing in his throat.
As he climbed over onto the gantry, he felt for his phone so that he could check on Gemma’s progress, but his pocket was now empty. He
lumbered along the gantry anyway. He ought to have expected to lose something
during all that ducking and diving. He could find the phone later, but for the
moment he had to close down Goodfellow.
When he encountered the beanbag-launcher, it was everything
he’d anticipated: a long fat barrel pointed downhill, with an OTT telescopic
sight on top, a hefty gas canister underneath, a kiddie-sized swivel-seat, two
big triggers built into its grips, and a crank-handle to replenish the gas
after each shot was fired. By the looks of it, the ammunition was fed in
through a breech-loading compartment at the rear of the barrel.
Next to this, a few spare bottles sat in a wooden crate,
alongside several other empty crates.
Heck lifted one out and examined it: Weihenstephan, 5.4%. He
checked another: Fruh Kolsch, 4.8%. He shook his head. ‘Something else I’m
locking you up for, Goodfellow. The criminal waste of damn good beer.’
He followed a passage under the canopy, and emerged at the
top of a flight of metal steps, which were no longer covered in snow down the
middle because someone had recently descended by this route. But Heck didn’t follow straight away. He’d found himself in an
adequately elevated position to see across many of the roofs and gables of the
surrounding structures. He could even see above the mist, which ebbed through
the narrow passages below like a Hollywood special effect.
But almost immediately, his eyes were drawn to movement of a
different sort.
Some forty yards away, he spotted a ring of buildings larger
and more detailed than most of the others, and built in the archetypical
Bavarian style: pale plaster and black beams, but with tall, steep roofs
currently shrouded in snow. The Christmas music he’d heard earlier, the male
and female choir, appeared to be emanating from over in that direction. But
more importantly, there was a narrow gap between the two houses facing towards
him, an entry or alleyway, and even as Heck stared at it, he saw people
passing by its far end; numerous people, of different shapes and sizes.
He descended the steps slowly, one hand gripping the rail,
soles constantly slipping on crushed snow, utterly perplexed.
More people continued to pass the far end of that alley.
Was part of the park still open then? Was there a private
party in progress?
Or worse still, did Gideon Goodfellow have considerably more
acolytes than anyone had guessed?
*
As the first avenue of the maze trailed off into foggy
dimness, Gemma could scarcely believe her situation. At first glance, it
resembled that terrifying end-scene in the movie, The Shining. The snow-filled
passage led on and on, though with numerous turnings to left and right, which
she could choose or ignore at her own whim. But instead of hedges, these
interwoven paths were divided by thickly enmeshed Christmas trees.
Christmas trees which sang in fluting, ethereal voices …
On Christmas night all Christians sing
To hear the news the angels bring …
… and glittered hypnotically, patterns of kaleidoscopic
colour sweeping through them. If that wasn’t enough, holographic trickery had
also been employed, the shapes of white winter sprites flitting back and forth
through the dark foliage, sometimes crossing the path ahead of Gemma, sometimes
darting alongside her.
Whichever way she turned, left or right, it was the same
story. In less than a couple of minutes of weaving blindly into the heart of
this hallucinogenic attraction, she’d lost all sense of direction (if she’d had
any to start with) – so she couldn’t imagine what effect it was having on the
unhinged character pursuing her. Several times as she ran, she glanced back,
always seeing him turning the corner some forty yards behind. It wouldn’t be
difficult for him to keep track of her – all he had to do was follow her
footprints, but with all this strangeness abounding, and he in his mentally ill
state, it had to be a challenge for him.
Not that Gemma was having it easy.
With her own energy flagging, she was probably no less
likely to die lost and frozen in this place than he was. Deciding that a
desperate measure was needed, she turned sharp right and plunged into the
nearest wall of evergreens, hands clawing ahead of her to tear open a pathway.
No doubt, he would copy her. And indeed, within a few yards of forging into the
icy thicket, she heard a succession of hacks and slashes as he used his
great knife to chop his way in. But if she could get a reasonable distance
ahead of him, it would be harder for him to tail her in here because he
wouldn’t be able to see her prints so well.
Gemma’s own progress was slowed, however, as she found herself stepping over or ducking underneath loops of tubular Christmas lighting woven between the trees, while the trees themselves – real of course, young, strong and full of sap – could not simply be brushed aside or snapped at the stem. They scratched, prickled and whipped her as she battled her way through them. She had no real idea which direction she was headed in, but knew that she must reach a perimeter at some point. Several times, she broke out into other passages, though always she crossed over these and burrowed into the next wall of vegetation.
Despite suffering similar hindrances, the madman, initially
at least, remained close behind. In fact, he was so close now that she could
hear grunts and snarls only a few yards to her rear. But was it possible that
they weren’t snarls of anger now, as much as snarls of confusion, or even
distress? More mesmeric colours – oranges, blues, indigos – washed over her as
she fought her way on. Shrill voices sounded on all sides from concealed
speakers.
Joy to the world
The Lord has come …
More darting,
sprite-like figures hurried this way and that. Gemma found herself dazed,
stumbling sideways as she tried to turn, tripping over a tube of lights and
landing in pine-cones and mulch because so few snowflakes had managed to penetrate
the canopy of firs.
Before she could jump back to her feet, there was a snapping
and popping of saplings, and Punch came within a few feet of her.
She lay on her side, perfectly still but watching intently
as his tall form swayed into view, fresh snow showering over him as his fierce
struggle through the trees shook it loose from overhead boughs. More spiny
branches whipped him, more strands of lights tangled around him. Enraged, he
swiped wildly with his knife, shearing limbs, lopping through greenery, but
only making things more difficult, entwining himself in swags of severed
foliage. When he saw the darting sprites, he lunged at those as well, to no
avail. Fleetingly, Gemma glimpsed his face: the Punch mask now
was jammed at an angle, so it seemed doubtful that he could even see through it
properly. As he blundered around, turning progressively more violent circles,
growling as he ripped and sliced at every tree that got in his way, she took
a chance, raising herself up into a crouch.
He didn’t notice, and continued to fight his way out of
sight, curtains of evergreen finally closing behind him, the elfin choir
singing on in a state of transcendental bliss.
And heaven and nature sing …
Gemma scrambled to her feet, and headed back the way she’d
come, keeping low and moving as stealthily as possible. Thankfully, Punch had
already ploughed that route for her. She followed it, and in next to no time
was back on a snowy avenue, and running leftward. She had no idea why she chose
this direction. It was pure pot-luck; it could only ever be pot-luck in a maze
like this, late at night.
But for once, it paid off. Because at the next junction, she
glanced right and saw another straight avenue leading back to the maze
entrance. The frozen air rasped in her aching chest, as she hammered down
towards it, stumbling out into open space again, whereupon two things
immediately struck her.
![](https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjspcda6ixjNZAgeVUBRPGlNt348gib7gk6ElJXQKWPYZ78xHdR1taTsZHL4kAgaO0g2WcIyfIgPnNNrxLxJXF9N7DVBAPKd2NNsIqbw_mnmi-9vKynr_CGMrTrR7m0BzFMeKjSlV7QDPA/s1600/3+-+lightning+-+Copy.jpg)
The lightning tree …
*
Heck emerged from the alley between the two houses. What lay
before him was a town square – not a real one of course, but an impressive
recreation all the same. Despite the snow-cover, he saw handsome paving stones,
very neatly laid, while on all sides, open, well-lit doorways led into
bierkellers, delicatessen and other ‘Alpine village’ shops, though all were
empty and closed at present.
And this was the whole crux of it, for though, as with the
rest of Christmas Land, everything here had the distinct appearance of life, in
actual fact it was all automated. The charming music – at present it was Chestnuts Roasting on
an Open Fire – descended on the square from evenly-spaced overhead speakers,
the festive lights glimmered and glittered in pre-programmed patterns.
And then there were the people.
Not all were in motion. A good number, cute waxen effigies
of traditional Germanic folk, corpulent chaps in whiskers and lederhosen, or
ladies with coiled blonde hair, wearing pretty rustic dresses, were seated at
tables located under thatched canopies encircling the square, as though
awaiting their beer and Bratwurst. Children too were present; one stood quite
close to Heck, but was frozen in time, wearing a jumper, mittens and a long
bobcap, the bobble hanging alongside his freckle-covered face as he leaned on
his upright sledge and watched the ice-skating. That was the second group of
people in the square, the one that had drawn Heck here.
The ice-skaters.
He walked forward, fascinated by this particular aspect of
the place.
A low, snow-covered fence separated the ice rink from the
public area, mainly, he suspected, because it wasn’t a real rink. A flat,
semi-opaque surface covered a circular area with a diameter of fifty or so
yards, and all around the inner edge of it pairs of figures, in each case a
male and female arm-in-arm, moved in clockwise procession, legs stiff, but
gliding smoothly as though on skates.
Heck stepped over the fence, and moved to the very edge of
the rink.
One after another, the serene duos drifted past.
Up close, whereas the waxwork effigies seated around the
square were sufficiently lifelike to merit inclusion in a Tussauds
gallery (no doubt because these were the figures that visitors would most
closely interact with and use for photo-calls), the mobile mannequins, though
dressed well, again in folksy winter attire reminiscent of rural Germany, were
crudely constructed from wood, with only basic paintwork to give them human
features. A couple of the women had bundles of string for hair stapled to the
sides of their heads.
It was still a remarkable illusion. After all, visitors
weren’t supposed to climb over the fence to get so close a look. It was only from
Heck’s position that it was possible to see that the figures weren’t actually
skating. In reality, they were attached to mechanical runners beneath the ice,
which when he tapped it with his foot, was a thin, plasticky material pulled
taut but filled with well-concealed slits along which the mannequins travelled.
Doubtless some heat was generated by the process, as no snow had settled on the
rink itself.
Fleetingly, Heck had been so startled by this scene – it was
literally as though he’d walked into some clockwork Teutonic wonderland, as if
he was an extra in Chitty Chitty Bang Bang or Tom Thumb – that he’d forgotten
why he was here. Now, he turned and scanned the miniature town centre,
wondering if one of the shops was perhaps more open than it appeared, or maybe
if someone was sitting quietly amid the motionless figures. He felt again at
his pocket, more by instinct than design, newly irritated that he’d lost his
phone.
Pivoting around, he checked the brightly-painted signposts
above the windows and doorways, looking to see if any of them offered
directions to Toytown Halt, but nothing revealed itself. The only option, it
seemed, was to exit the square via one of its other passages, and see where
that took him to. He turned a circle one last time, his gaze again arrested by
the hypnotic movement of the skaters, and the rapid approach of another
arm-linked couple: a tall man in tweeds, the woman with him in full-skirted
Edwardian garb and a fur cape, the pair of them wearing feathered Tyrolean
hats. Only a few yards behind these came two more figures: an upright soldier
in peppermint green, with a gold-embroidered green tunic, a plumed green shako
and a green, fur-trimmed pelisse slung over his shoulder. The figure on his
left, somewhat surprisingly, was also male, and clad in tawdry Victorian wear,
which had nothing prepossessing about it. Heck’s eyes roved away, only to dart
back as the odder of the two couples swished quietly towards him – at which
point, the tawdry Victorian, who hadn’t just been clutching the military figure
by his arm, but had hitched a ride with him by standing on his boots, now leapt
clear, at the same time ripping the sabre from the soldier’s scabbard.
Heck tottered back onto the snowy paving slabs, at which
point his feet slid from under him and he fell backwards over the low fence.
Even though he landed in more snow, it winded him, and he struggled to
crab-crawl backwards.
Gideon Goodfellow, his bad eye like a frozen grey marble in
his dementedly grinning face, leapt over the fence with a litheness that belied
his hunched, heavy outline.
‘And a merry Christmas to you, sir,’ he said in a resonant,
richly English voice. ‘What a charming environment in which finally to make
your acquaintance.’
Heck’s eyes locked on the sword as he continued to scrabble
backwards. It was long, curved and gleaming, its guarded hilt hung with golden
tassels.
‘You’re already in serious trouble, Gideon,’ he warned. ‘Do
you want to make it worse?’
He didn’t rate his opponent in purely physical terms. The
guy was older than he was and considerably more overweight. Plus, he likely had
limited vision. But he’d just got the drop on Heck through sheer cunning, and
of course he had this weapon. It was highly possible that he also possessed
that much whispered-about ‘strength of the insane’.
‘Whom do I have the honour of addressing?’ Goodfellow asked,
pursuing Heck in a slow, catlike crouch.
‘DC Heckenburg. Bethnal Green CID.’
‘Bethnal Green. You’re some way off your patch, detective.’
‘Given that Broadmoor’s about seventy miles from here, so
are you.’
‘Ah hah!’ The felon seemed to be genuinely tickled by that.
‘Find that funny, do you?’ Heck talked desperately as he
scuttled backwards, acutely aware that even the fleeting time it would take him
to jump to his feet might leave him open to that lethal blade. ‘The prospect of
spending the rest of your life in a lunatic asylum?’
‘They’ll have to catch me first,’ Goodfellow chuckled – all
the more when he saw Heck’s back collide with the unmoving obstacle of a fixed wooden
bench. ‘And alas, that won’t be through your gallant auspices.’
His grin turned manic as he drew the sword over his shoulder
to deliver a tremendous one-handed stroke. Panicked, Heck kicked into the snow
with both feet, to try and project himself up and backwards over the
obstruction – only to land in the lap of a waxen effigy. A quick sideways
glance showed the apple-red cheeks, blonde walrus-moustache, and jutting clay
pipe of the Christmas Land burgomaster.
‘Your police service concludes,’ Goodfellow said solemnly, and the
blade whistled down.
Heck had no choice but to raise his left forearm.
The sabre struck it square-on.
Any normal person would have expected an instant cleaving of
flesh, muscle, bone – not the wholesale shattering of the blade.
The faces of both cop and robber registered total disbelief
as it fell to pieces in the snow.
Dully, like an ox, Goodfellow raised the guarded hilt,
staring in disbelief at the few glittering shards remaining. Heck reached down
and picked one up. He didn’t need to remove his glove to work out that it was
no more than plastic, rendered extremely brittle by the frost.
Promptly, he jerked himself upright. Suddenly, the twosome
stood nose-to-nose.
Goodfellow was only an inch shorter than Heck, but now
seemed significantly less authoritative. ‘I, erm … I …’
‘There are two ways we can do this,’ Heck told him quietly.
‘The easy way or the hard way. It’s your call, Gideon.’
‘I … I …’ Again, belying his size and shape, Goodfellow
whirled speedily around, but this time Heck was faster, snatching his wrist,
twisting it, and hacking a low punch into his unprotected belly. Choking
melodramatically, the felon sagged to his knees. The guard-hilt of the broken
sabre clattered onto the shivered remnants of its blade.
Heck hunkered down. ‘That was the easy way … just in case
you were wondering.’
From the manner of his hung head and the way he clutched his
midriff, not to mention the nauseated grimace on his pallid face, Gideon
Goodfellow wasn’t wondering any such thing.
Heck showed him the handcuffs. ‘So why don’t we stick with
that, eh?’
*
She had to believe that this was the tree they were looking
for, because the closer she got to it, the larger and more magnificently it
loomed. She was near enough now to see that it had canted slightly to the left,
while on its right a great explosion of roots had risen partly from the earth.
Up close, no doubt, they’d be covered with ice and snow, and forming something of
a fantastical feature in their own right. But before Gemma got close enough to
check, she became aware of artificial lighting on the other side of it. Some of
this clearly issued from the line of Germanic-style huts and cabins about fifty
yards beyond it, but there also appeared to be light among the roots, which
puzzled her.
She hurried forward over the last few yards, the blackened,
leaning hulk ever more massive. It was difficult to say what it had
once been – an oak maybe, or a horse-chestnut – but the blagger gang couldn’t
have found a more recognisable marker for their buried loot, even with a
festive theme park erected here.
Thanks to the sheer mass of roots, Gemma had to follow a
wide semi-circle to get around to the other side, but when she did, she stopped
in her tracks.
It seemed that the creators of Christmas Land had also been
impressed by this wondrous natural feature; so much so that they’d chosen this
specific spot in which to remember the original meaning of the season. In the
very midst of the tangled roots, where a natural grotto had formed that was
about twenty feet across, they’d set up a Nativity scene with glowing life-size
figures. It would have been a remarkable sight, a heart-warming sight, a
delightful sight – had this evening’s intruders not turned it into something
poisonously vile.
Though the figures of the holy parents remained, St Joseph
on the left, leaning on his staff, the Virgin Mary on the right, kneeling in
thankful prayer, and at the back the mighty figure of the Archangel Gabriel
standing tall with arms and wings outspread, in the very middle, the manger had
been kicked aside and the minuscule form of the Baby Jesus lay broken and
trailing cables. In its place, a bundle of rags sat alongside a recently-dug
pit, no more than a foot in depth, the earth around it hacked out in frozen
chunks. But on the other side of that, at the foot of the splendid angel, a
short, plump woman knelt in agony and exhaustion.
Despite the aching cold, she wore only pyjamas and a
dressing gown. Her hands had been tied behind her back, the length of
clothesline then pulled taut both to left and right, and knotted to the nearest
roots on either side. Perhaps most horrific of all, her head had been wrapped
in plastic bags and bound with duct-tape. This clearly blinded her, though a
hole had been ripped for her mouth, so that she at least could breathe – not
that it was easy.
Gemma gazed in horrified disgust as the plastic packaging
inflated and then deflated in time with the woman’s anguished sobs. She rushed
forward, only for a figure to leap seemingly from nowhere, and land in her
path.
It could only be Gideon Goodfellow’s disturbed girlfriend,
Janet King.
Having divested herself of the outer Victorian garb and
bonnet, she now, bizarrely, wore only Victorian underwear, though there was
nothing enticing or sensual about the image she presented. It was baggy and
dirty, while the girl herself possessed a wiry, muscular frame, and currently
was bent forward like a predator poised to strike. Strands of lank, mouse-brown
hair hung over her eyes, which were slitted and malevolent; clenched teeth
showed through lips set in a feral snarl. Most frightening of all, she wielded
a small pickaxe – presumably the one she’d been working with, though now she
passed it from hand to hand, like a weapon.
‘You would be Janet, I’m guessing?’ Gemma said slowly.
‘Gideon Goodfellow’s girlfriend, fiancée, pet, skivvy, punchbag …’
With a reptilian hiss, King swept forward, swinging the
pickaxe up and down. Gemma, who’d had just about enough of these cruel but
stupid opportunists, stepped aside and watched the woman flinch as the steel
tip jolted back from the iron-hard ground.
‘Aren’t you the least bit ashamed of yourself?’ she said.
King swung the pick at her again, but she was visibly tired as well cold. Again, Gemma sidestepped with relative ease.
‘What’s the matter with you, for God’s sake?’
The pick came up and over a third time, King grunting
harshly, but still Gemma dodged.
‘We’ve got one female hanging on a Christmas tree …’
King tried a backhand slash, but that didn’t work either.
She lost balance and tottered.
‘We got another one freezing slowly to death …’
The curved steel came up and over again, and again it
clanked on rock-hard ground.
‘He’s even got you digging … through soil that’s more like
concrete.’
Clank!
‘While he gallivants off, doing God knows what!’
Clank!
‘Are you insane?’ Gemma asked her.
Clank!
‘Or just plain thick …’
Unfortunately, she was so busy lecturing that she failed to
notice the bundle of swaddling rags, and when she struck it with the back of
her heel, the heavy implements concealed inside it clattered, and she tripped.
Gemma landed hard on her tailbone. It was a sharp blow, and
it fleetingly knocked her sick. At the same time, it gave Janet King new
energy. She scampered forward eagerly. Gemma tried to scrabble away, but the
ground was slick, and she couldn’t get a grip. With a grin like a jack
o’lantern, King loomed over her, raising the pickaxe on high – at which point
someone grabbed its haft and yanked it from her grasp.
‘Sorry about that,’ Heck said. ‘Just thought I’d even the
odds a little.’
The woman goggled at him non-comprehendingly.
As he tossed the weapon far away across the snow, she
noticed a second newcomer, this one slumped down on his side some twenty yards
off. It was Gideon – her Gideon – scowling with impotent anger, his two hands
cuffed behind his back. Heck now made to grab her, but she jumped backwards,
before twirling around to run. She fully intended to escape, though she wasn’t
sure where to. At that moment, any direction would do. But before she’d covered
half a yard, the blonde policewoman had blocked her path.
‘Silly cow,’ Gemma said simply.
With a smack of fist on bone, King went down in a groaning
heap.
‘Nice shot,’ Heck said.
Gemma glared at him, as she dropped to her knees alongside
the fallen figure. ‘I only did that because it’s what she deserves’.
He shrugged. ‘That’s usually why I do it.’
‘This one deserves it more than most. Give me your tie, please.’
‘My tie?’
‘I’ve no handcuffs, so I need something …’
‘Ah.’ Heck zipped his parka down and stripped his tie off,
throwing it over.
As Gemma bound the girl’s hands together, she hissed into
her ear: ‘You know what it’s like to be on the end of violence, Janet. And yet
you participated in this anyway. That makes you equally as guilty as Gideon.
So, guess what, idiot … you’re bloody locked up!’
Before she could add the official caution, a whimper from the still-bound
Doreen caught her attention. She hastened over there, asking Heck to watch the
prisoners. He nodded, moving back to Goodfellow, hauling him to his feet,
marching him forward a few yards and dropping him into the snow again.
‘Doreen?’ Gemma said, sliding to her knees alongside the
plastic-wrapped figure. ‘I’m DC Piper from Bethnal Green. You’re safe now … and
your children are safe too.’
The figure visibly sagged with relief on hearing this.
‘We’re going to get you out of this.’ Gemma pulled her
gloves off and attacked the complex knots holding the woman in place. ‘And then
we’re going to get you somewhere warm. Just hang on.’
But she was only half way through the process when she
sensed another figure emerge into the light. She and Heck glanced around, and
about twenty yards away, still tangled in greenery, his clothing ragged, his gruesome
mask gashed and dented, but still wielding that huge, shining blade, they
beheld Mr Punch.
He came at Gemma with a piercing, hellish shriek, crossing
the open space in three strides.
It all seemed to happen in slow motion; Heck was the furthest
away and couldn’t possibly have intercepted him. But even Gemma, who’d just
plucked open the last knot, had no time to drag the weakened, whimpering form
of Doreen Butler out of the way. Punch’s shriek rose shrilly as he bore down,
so intent on slicing though the pair of them that he never even saw the
half-dug pit – and so trod in it with his right foot, tripping and toppling
sideways, though his momentum still carried him forward. It bought Gemma a vital split-second, though only sufficient
for her to throw herself on top of the hostage and flatten her on the ground.
Punch sailed over both of them, plunging his knife into the Angel Gabriel
instead, the plastic moulding puncturing cleanly, the steel blade carving the
live filaments within.
For what seemed like an age, Damien ‘Mr Punch’ Goodfellow
held that awkward stance.
Body arched, right foot rigid in the air, but his left foot,
in fact his whole lower left leg apparently fused to the snow-covered ground.
This latter was the point where blue sparks danced and flashed – along with the
point of his blade, of course. Only when a stench of burning flesh enveloped Gemma did she
realise what was happening, and it was a perilous moment – because both she and
Doreen’s legs extended underneath the juddering, sparking figure.
Frantically, she wormed her way forward, dragging the
groaning captive with her.
No sooner had they got clear than, with a thunderous BANG!,
the archangel blew itself apart, and all the lights in the snowy meadow and the
Christmas tree maze and the whole of the festive theme park were extinguished,
temporarily blinding everyone.
With a thud, Damien Goodfellow slumped to the ground.
Heck tottered slowly forward, aghast.
‘Gemma?’ he said. ‘Gemma!’
‘I’m … I’m alright,’ she replied. ‘We’re okay … both of us.’
‘For Gawd’s sake, check the boy!’ a gruff Cockney voice
called from somewhere behind them. Gideon Goodfellow had reverted to his native
South London.
‘We can’t do that,’ Heck replied over his shoulder. ‘He
could still be live.’
He flicked his torch on, holding its beam only briefly on
the blackened, smoking husk that had once been Damien, before pushing it
sideways, and, to his immense relief, finding Gemma. She and Doreen Butler were
sitting up together, the hostage leaning wearily against her rescuer as Gemma
peeled away what remained of the tape and plastic.
‘Gemma … you sure you’re okay?’
‘We’re okay,’ Gemma confirmed, though scarcely a glimmer of
the glamorous elf-girl remained. She looked battered, beaten and bedraggled.
Then, there came a clunking sound from behind them – though
actually it was more like a crunch, the sort of noise metal makes when it’s cut
or broken.
Gemma glanced past Heck in alarm. Heck turned as well, his
torchlight sweeping the trampled snow, alighting on Gideon Goodfellow. In the
distraction, the prisoner had risen to his feet, and Janet King was now
alongside him. Her own hands were still bound with Heck’s tie, but they were
bound at the front, not the back, and this had not impeded her from picking up
the roll of swaddle left near the pit, taking it to her lover and emptying out
its contents, a variety of tools. One of these was a pair of bolt-croppers,
possibly the same item they’d used to open the park up. Now, she’d used them
again – on the chain of Gideon’s handcuffs.
He massaged his wrists and flexed his hands, and gave a deep
theatrical belly-laugh. ‘Free … free at last.’
‘Okay.’ Heck strode quickly over there. ‘Now we do it the
hard way.’
Goodfellow laughed again, but then swooped down and grabbed
another tool. It was a second Bowie knife, almost identical to the one his
brother had used. Without a word, he pulled the startled Janet King to
him and held the wicked blade at her throat.
She froze in astonishment, eyes bulging, too stunned even to
yelp.
Heck slowed cautiously.
Goodfellow laughed again as he began retreating, dragging
his human shield with him.
‘I knew this dozy tart would come in useful someday,’ he
guffawed.
‘Don’t be bloody stupid,’ Heck replied. ‘Where are you going
to escape to on a night like this … in your condition? You haven’t got more
than a hundred yards left in you.’
‘More than this one has if you don’t stay put!’ the fugitive
barked, bringing Heck to a standstill.
There was already about thirty yards between them, but Goodfellow
was retreating fast, increasing that distance steadily. He was soon at the full extent of Heck’s torch-beam. Once he and his captive vanished into
the dark, it could be a real problem despite his physical shortcomings. He
still had the keys to the van. If he managed to work his way back to it …
Heck started forward again, unwilling to let that happen.
‘Don’t think about it, copper!’ Goodfellow yelled, pressing
the edge of his blade so forcefully against King’s neck that it visibly
drew blood.
Heck halted again, seeing how stiff with terror the girl now was.
‘Yeah, that’s it,’ Goodfellow chuckled, aware of the night slowly embracing him. ‘You lot back off and stay backed off … and we can all have
ourselves a merry little Christmas after all.’
Ho Ho Ho … Ho Ho Ho!
Santa’s Toy Train came out of nowhere, just to the right of
them.
Goodfellow hadn’t realised that he’d backed onto the
snow-covered railway. Startled by the brightly-coloured shape suddenly
ballooning at speed towards him, he lost his grip on the woman, who frantically
threw herself out of the way.
Belatedly he tried to follow her.
Too belatedly.
The bone-jarring impact echoed across the icy countryside.
*
‘You cocky little bastards,’ Goodfellow groaned. ‘My
brief’ll rip you apart for this.’
‘Think he’ll do as good a job of it as you did with Mary
Byrne?’ Heck replied.
‘I didn’t do any of that … awww my Gawd!’ Goodfellow tried
to adjust his position on the sledge Heck dragged behind him as they headed
across the meadow, but with both his legs fixed in improvised splints, it
wasn’t easy. ‘Oh Gawd … this hurts. Naaah, nah that was all Damien …’
‘Yeah, I’ve absolutely no doubt that’ll be your life of
defence,’ Heck said. He didn’t bother looking back, because he didn’t want to
take his eye off Janet King, now meek and acquiescent as he frog-marched her
along, but still not someone he felt he could trust, hence the wrist-lock he
had on her.
‘You want another?’ Goodfellow said, trying to jeer despite
his very real pain. ‘You murdered Damien … threw him into them electrics. Then
you pushed me under that train. And now I’ve got two busted legs. How does that
measure up for police brutality, eh?’
‘You must tell whatever lie you think you can get away with,
Gideon,’ Gemma said, plodding alongside them, doing her utmost to keep the
hypothermic Doreen Butler on her feet.
‘I tell no lie. I’ve got my witness right here. Ain’t I,
Janny?’
Janet King still didn’t reply. They’d allowed her to put her
outer clothes back on, having searched them first, and now she walked with head
drooped. Her air was that of the defeated.
‘Don’t think you’re her favourite person right at this
moment, Gideon,’ Heck said.
‘Bollocks! Janny … listen to me, girl. All that stuff I said
back there … Janny?’
‘No legs, no witness,’ Heck mused. ‘Perhaps you’re the one
who’s being too cocky.’
‘You shaddap … oh, Gawd help us, my legs.’
‘Maybe you’re forgetting that we’ve got a witness too,’
Gemma said.
Goodfellow tried to laugh; it came out as a coarse,
ratcheting sound – but he tried nevertheless. ‘You ain’t gonna grass, are you,
Doreen? She knows her old fella wouldn’t like that.’
‘You know …’ Heck glanced at Gemma. ‘Speaking of her old
fella, maybe there’s a deal to be done?’
Gemma pondered this. ‘You mean if we pull a couple of
strings, we can perhaps get Gideon sent to Frankland?’
‘Yeah,’ Heck said. ‘Where Doreen’s hubby’s doing his time.’
‘Perhaps we could even get him a cell off the same landing.’
‘Stow it, copper!’ Goodfellow scoffed. ‘You ain’t got that
pull. You’re nothing. A wooden-top in a suit.’
‘You’d be surprised what DC Heckenburg can make happen,’
Gemma replied. ‘I’ve known him four years now, and I’m never less than
astonished.’
‘Yeah, I’m really scared.’
‘You should be, Gideon,’ Heck said. ‘Because even if we
can’t get you into Frankland, you know how well-connected Leroy Butler is. He’s
likely to have a long reach.’ He leaned down to Janet King’s ear. ‘That’s
something for you to think about too, Janet. When you’re weighing up the odds
about which side to give evidence on …’
The girl glanced round and locked eyes with him. She didn’t
say anything, but he was left in no doubt from her expression that she
understood his drift.
Goodfellow continued to utter expletives, alternately
threatening his girlfriend in case she betrayed him, and them begging her to
remember which side her bread was buttered on. But no one was really listening.
They were now approaching the park gates, beyond which swirling blue lights
were visible.
‘Cavalry got here at last,’ Gemma said.
‘Better late than never,’ Heck replied.
Several motorway units had finally managed to respond, one
of these now ready to play the role of ambulance so that Butler and Goodfellow
could be taken to hospital, while another would provide prisoner transport
for King. As a dead body was still on the site, one well-wrapped Traffic man
agreed to stand guard until the crime scene techs arrived.
Even so, it only seemed to take a few minutes before the two
detectives found themselves alone on the snowy lane, alongside their CID car.
‘Loading the dice in our favour again?’ Gemma said
reprovingly. ‘And don’t give me that “who me, ref?” face. I’m talking about
Janet King. We’re foot-sloggers, Mark. We’re not authorised to offer her a
deal.’
Heck shrugged. ‘Can’t hurt to sew a few seeds, can it? But I
think you’ll find we’ll be deemed important enough to the case to have to spend the rest of
the night form-filling.’
‘Wasn’t quite the way I intended us to spend Christmas
together,’ Gemma agreed, as they climbed into the car. ‘But the sooner we get
going, the more chance of us making dinner at mum’s. It’s already Christmas
morning.’
‘And, as such …’ he turned to face her, ‘do I get a
Christmas kiss, or what?’
‘A kiss?’
‘We could both use one.’
In the glacial moonlight, her expression was one of stern
reprimand. ‘Mark Heckenburg … I’ve had a pretty rough night, tonight. You won’t believe
what I’ve gone through simply because I popped into the nick to keep you
company. Now … do you seriously think a kiss is going to make all that better?’
‘It’s the job, babe,’ he dared to say. ‘It’s what you signed
up for.’
‘No one signs up for the job the way you do it.’
‘Okay,’ he sighed, switching the engine on and putting the
car in gear. ‘I get the picture.’
‘Wait up.’ She put her hand on his. ‘I could have phrased
that better, I suppose. What I should have said is … do you seriously think one
kiss can put all this right?’
‘Ah … one kiss?’
She nodded brightly.
‘Well, in that case …’ He unclipped his seat-belt again.
‘When we’ve finished the paperwork,’ she added.
He gave her a mournful look. ‘Seriously?’
‘I’m afraid so. First things first.’
He snapped his belt back into place. ‘Be cramped and cold in
here, anyway.’
‘Wouldn’t it just.’
He commenced a three-point turn, which eventually turned
into something like a fifty-point turn and involved much cursing and annoyance,
before he finally managed to get them facing the right direction again.
‘But you’ve got to promise to put that Santa dress on,’ he
said, edging them forward.
‘If it’s still Christmas, I will.’
‘The amount we’ve got to do, it’ll probably be Easter.’
‘And if it is, I’ve got a nice little Easter Bunny number, which
I feel sure you’ll appreciate. ’
Heck cracked a smile as he drove. ‘Now you’re talking.’
***
If you have enjoyed BRIGHTLY SHONE THE MOON THAT NIGHT, you might also be interested to know that there have been six Mark ‘Heck’ Heckenburg novels published to date (Avon Books, HarperCollins). They are, in chronological order: STALKERS, SACRIFICE, THE KILLING CLUB, DEAD MAN WALKING, HUNTED and ASHES TO ASHES. In addition to those, the seventh in the series, KISS OF DEATH, which is due for publication in August next year, is now available to be pre-ordered.
Thank you for the story - Merry Christmas to you :)
ReplyDeleteMany thanks, Karen. Happy Christmas right back at yer.
ReplyDeleteThoroughly enjoyed this. Love Heck, I have a soft spot for this character! Also liked the insight into his and Gemma's early relationship. Thanks Paul and best wishes for 2018.
ReplyDeleteMany thanks, Katie. Heck and Gemma started out in that soft fuzzy light of true love, as so many of us do ... but time would test this to the limit.
DeleteThis comment has been removed by the author.
ReplyDelete