NAUGHTY BUT NICE?: an éclair to die for. Full Version

Chapter 1.

A Chocolate éclair ? That’s what he was thinking about. It was strange that he always thought about food while he was on a job. Perhaps that was a funny way of thinking of it, a job. What would the papers call it tomorrow, a Hit ? While the police would call it a contract killing.
But that’s what it was a job. He was a professional doing his job. Something he took pride in doing properly. People never seemed to take pride in their work these days, it was all too slap-dash.
After all he never got emotionally involved these days. Not like at the beginning, all those years ago settling scores . Revenge even. Then it had been very personal. But not now, he was too old ,too jaded. Now it was just business.

He was sitting on a step in a doorway halfway up a small alley connecting the Station and the High street. Or to be totally accurate, he was sitting on a small pile of copies of the Big Issue, as the step was cold and wet and he had no intention of getting piles. Perhaps that was an old wives tale. But he wasn’t taking any chances. He never took any chances. That was the difference he thought between a professional and some young thug with a gun. His clients knew he would carry out the contract professionally. A clean kill, no witnesses, no innocent by-standers gunned down and most importantly no connection to them.
If you had a cancer you would go to a surgeon with a scalpel to remove it. You wouldn’t get some illiterate school leaver with a meat clever to do it, would you? That’s how he thought of himself, as another professional, only he used a gun with a silencer. Rather than a drive by shooting by some punk kid with a machine gun .Too flashy, too many witnesses or casualties or both. The police would have to have a proper investigation and the client would end up a suspect.

He was a balding , middle-aged and overweight man in an M&S suit, over which he had a large brown padded anorak several sizes too large for him. It’s hood was pulled far forward over his head, so that his face was in shadow and also to protect him from a persistent drip from the leaky gutter above. He had tried moving to the other side of the step to avoid the drip, but then didn’t have a clear view down the alley. So he sat and was dripped on. The rain appeared to be easing off as the time between each drip had increased. He had begun timing them about an hour ago, but now the novelty had definitely warn off. He was tired, cold and bored. But as they said , one must suffer for ones art. He wasn’t sure who exactly they were, but they had obviously never spent a wet afternoon under a drip sitting on a step that smelled of urine.
Why had he been thinking of chocolate éclairs before ? He hadn’t had one for years. Then he smiled to himself as he thought what he must look like in this huge brown anorak, perhaps that was the reason. Then he remembered the bakers by the station that he had passed earlier when he’d been buying his copies of the Big Issue. One copy from each seller in town so as not to draw attention. They’d been big fat ones bursting with fresh cream. He wondered if he would have time afterward to get one before they closed. He checked his watch, he was late. Some people were so inconsiderate. He couldn’t even be sure he would come this way. Usually he would watch his targets for a few days at least, but this was a special case.

Even so, he had taken time to set the scene. It was important any passer-by didn’t notice anything strange. People didn’t look the home-less straight in the eye, they were too embarrassed. So they couldn’t identify him. His step and by default he smelled of urine, so they didn’t get too close. He was surrounded by empty beer cans, so he would obviously be drunk and aggressive. So rather unsurprisingly no one had approached him to buy a magazine. Which was just as well as he didn’t want to sell the ones he had and risk getting piles. He fidgeted , he wasn’t convinced the books were working. He pushed his hands deeper in his pockets. His right hand held the gun with it’s silencer, his thumb fiddled with the safety catch clicking it on and off. He wasn’t familiar with this gun, but needs must. It was important to use this gun.
In the past he had collected guns they all had a story to tell, history ,patina, a character of their own . They were like people. No, better than people, more reliable. But that individuality made them dangerous traceably .Police data bases, and latent image technology meaning they could read serial numbers even when filled off had made them a liability. So, he’d taken a ferry to Ireland thrown them over the side then returned to the bar and had a one man wake in their memory.

Now he usually used sole-less disposable weapons. Purchased over the internet. It made him smile. He couldn’t buy a gun at home without difficult questions, forms and raising lots of suspicion .Why would an antique dealer need a hand gun ? But he could buy them from China, replicas with or without serial numbers. All you needed was a lathe and some basis training as an armourer to turn it into a weapon. Both of which he had, he could also make his own ammunition which was useful for more unusual firearms. So, he now bought them by the dozen. Rather like a Chinese take away, a dozen of the number 38 no serial number and a side order of silencers . Totally anonymous, charm-less and thankfully devoid of any character. Which is probably how a stranger would also describe him.

Lathom, Robert Lathom. That was his name. His past witnesses had described him as white average height, middle aged, balding with an indeterminate accent . Which in any other career would be a negative assessment. But for an unidentifiable contract killer it was perfect. Even his closest friends, of which he had few ,if any. Would describe Bob as an acquired taste. Being both opinionated and cantankerous with a dry sense of humour.

Lathom had retired or been retired, depending on your point of view. It was a young man’s game he was told. So he took his pension and concentrated on his other interests by opening an antique shop in a small market town. But had soon been tempted back to help a friend from the old days settle a score with someone who thought himself above the law. The result of which had been so successful that he’d soon found himself in some demand. So that now he seemed to have cornered the market in removing scum. He thought of himself as a type of human waste disposal.
Lathom had a few stipulations, he wouldn’t kill women or children only men he considered scum. If he accepted the contract, he had a fixed fee. Half before after which he undertook to complete the contract within one month with the balance on completion. If he was unable to complete the contract, he would refund the money in full. He reserved the right to terminate the contract at any time, for any reason. But in reality this usually meant he decided he didn’t believe the victim deserved to die, didn’t like the client or felt it was too risky.

These simple rules had worked well for a few years. Lathom had culled those he considered scum and amassed a considerable sum of money. Which he had used to collect beautiful things. He had always collected things first stamps then silver. As his childhood had involved moving every few years. No time to put down roots or make friends, always the outsider So he always set more store by things rather than people and the rarer the better. Lathom had amassed a considerable collection of obscure yet expensive items. The sort of things which to most people would appear to be the contents of a junk shop or car boot sale. Those relics beloved of viewers of TV antique shows where someone produces a bowl or watercolour that most would give to a charity shop which is actually worth tens of thousands of pounds. Lathom had a house full of those bought from various sources, impoverished gentry , entrepreneurs short of liquidity or even stolen goods. If he was ever short of cash he could always use his antique business to launder the money. Recently he had ‘discovered’a first edition of Darwin’s ‘The origin of species’ in a box of books bought at a charity shop. He had made the local papers and a small piece on the regional TV news. In reality he had paid the market value for it from a casualty of the Lloyds-list fiasco would didn’t want the inland revenue to know about it. But that had been a mistake, too high profile. The other local antique dealers had teased him calling him ‘Lucky Lathom’. In future he would have to be more discrete.

Was this him ? Lathom looked down the alley. The man had stopped at the bottom of the alley where it joined the High street . He was about the right height, but he couldn’t see his face clearly from here. He had only seen the man once before but he never forgot a face, they had trained him well. The man paused and turned under the street light his back to Lathom and checked his watch. What was he doing ? Lathom reached into the right hand pocket of the anorak gripping the handle of the unfamiliar gun unbalanced by the heavy silencer , and with his thumb clicked off the safety-catch.
It was a simple plan, not one of his best. But ‘needs must’. He hadn’t had long to plan it .
He would wait until the man, target, victim, whatever you wished to call him drew level he would offer him a Big Issue, as he turned to buy it shoot him from inside the coat. Then leave the coat and gun with the body and walk up the alley to the station and the disappear into the commuters in his chain store suit.

The man under the street light turned as though to come up the alley ,then a girl ran up to him threw her arms around him and they kissed. They both turned and walked away from the alley. Lathom sighed and clicked on the safety-catch. Just then the drip started again.drip,..drip,..drip…faster than before but no less irritating.

It was his own fault he was sitting here, he wasn’t even getting paid , which made it even worse. All because of a contract he should have refused. But that was greed for you. He had needed the money quickly to add something irreplaceable to his collection, and he couldn’t risk the attention of another discovery for ‘luck Lathom’.

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Chapter 2.

He parked his car in a side street just off the Promenade. He had got to know this northern seaside town quite well in the past few weeks since he had taken the contract. It had a faded Victorian elegance about it. The street he was in was lined with large three storey houses which were mostly divided into flats or small B&B’s.
It was very early, the sun was just rising but the timing was important. He checked the small book of Tide-tables he had bought the last time he was here. Then checked his watch. He was wearing a long waterproof coat with a hood and a baseball cap .His gloved hands thrust deep in his pockets against the cold, but also to support the gun and silencer. The gun was one of his familiar chinese models, it was actually a pretty accurate copy of a classic snub-nose 38 . Which as it was a chinese interperatation of an american idea he had nick-named a ‘chow mein special’.
Lathom didn’t know what it was but he had a bad feeling about this job. Normally he wouldn’t touch it, the contract was to kill scum, but so was the client. However for once in his life he needed ready cash sooner rather than later.
One of his many interests was anything related to the Shropshire light infantry. In fact he had been doing research in preparation for a small article for the local paper ,when he meet another enthusiast who wanted to sell some memorabilia. Most of it was of little interest to him, but buried away in the dusty loft he found the real gem of the collection. A gun. Not any old Chinese special a real gun with real history.

To be precise it was a point-455” Webley from the first world war which the collector said had belonged to Charles Acton-Scott. It was complete with it’s Sam Browne leather belt, holster and cartridge case including twelve rounds of ammunition. However it wasn’t in the best condition, with some surface rust and the hammer was jammed. You certainly wouldn’t risk firing it or using the ninety year old shells. Once he held it Lathom knew he had to own it whatever the price. He knew he could re-build it and it’s ammunition. He could even fire it in the disused quarry behind his cottage. He no longer had a gun license. What would an antique dealer need with a hand gun.? It would make people curious about him and his past. He wouldn’t need to register the webley, he even had secret compartment in the back of his role-top desk he could keep it in. Unfortunately, the collector wanted to sell all the collection together and was considering auctioning it. Lathom couldn’t risk loosing the gun or drawing attention to himself with a large bid. People would then know about the gun and he would not be able to restore it without difficult questions. So he made him a substantial cash offer. Which is why he was now walking along the sea front toward the pier against his better judgement.

Charles Acton-Scott, or as the regiment history described him.‘ Captain Charles Rupert Acton-Scott VC ’ was a genuine hero. Born 1895 in Much Wenlock. Salop.Educated at Shrewsbury school, then Magdalen college Oxford , before enlisting in the Shropshire light infantry in 1915. Awarded the VC posthumously for his courageous,( some would say reckless) one man assault on heavily defended german positions on the first day of the battle of the Somme. As sixty thousand british and commonwealth troops were killed or wounded that day, Lathom was surprised Acton -Scott had been recognised. But then he had it all, young , dashing, tragic and with a cousin married to a minor royal. Connections helped, even when you were dead. There was no doubting though that he had been brave, and even if he couldn’t return from the grave at least Lathom thought his gun deserved resurrection.

Lathom had rehearsed the approach to the target and the timing of the killing, but now it was for real and so as usual he felt hungry. This morning he could only think of one thing, a real English fried breakfast. A proper one, thick fatty bacon, runny egg, slightly slimy mushrooms with fried bread , tomatoes and baked beans. He hadn’t eaten today as he had to set of so early to get here at this time. Hopefully if things worked out he could have breakfast afterwards. The target was a man of routine, which would be his undoing, as he felt safe here, this was his town. Unfortunately for him his trusted right hand man had delusions of grandure and Lathom had been approached through a previous client of his. Lathom was careful to cover his tracks as he had no desire to have anything to do with his clients or to compromise his new identity. He had done some background checks on the client as well as the target . Which had proved what he suspected that they deserved one another, and if someone else would pay him he would have been happy to dispatch the client as well as the target.

Lathom had now reached the end of the pier, the streets were empty. Even though it was spring it was still cold this time of the morning, who else would be out this early but a fisherman. It had always seemed a strange hobby to him. You sat and froze at the end of a pier for hours on end hoping to catch something inedible. That’s what the target was, among many other less savoury things he was a fisherman. At this moment he would be at the end of the pier baiting his hook, not expecting it was he who was the prey.
As he started to walk down the pier he passed a sign telling him that he couldn’t cycle or skate-board on the pier, neither could he walk a dog, leave litter or drink alcohol in public. However it neglected to mention committing murder so perhaps that was legal.
God help him he thought if contract killing was ever legalised, then Health and Safety would get involved. He would have to complete a risk assessment for every contract. Have to wear eye protection and have indemnity insurance in case something went wrong. They would probably have quotas and positive discrimination,he wouldn’t only be able to kill scum. No doubt for every ten scum he would have to shoot a nun, or a black lesbian social worker. So with that thought and a spring in his step, he quickened his pace.It was important he got there before the tide turned.

As he approached the end of the pier he could see the man silhouetted against the grey sky. He was sitting on a low chair hunched forward fiddling with his fishing gear. It was a simple plan, walk up to the target shot him at short range then throw the body off the pier. The tide was about to turn and it would be dragged out into the Irish sea. As no one would report him missing it could be weeks or even months before the body would be washed up, if at all. It had to be done this morning as the man was due to leave on holiday later that day, and by the time he returned it would be too late and he would have to return the money to the client, and would have lost the gun forever.
As he neared the man he clicked off the safety catch and prepared to draw the weapon. Just then a seagull swooped low over head and with a screech splattered the man’s right arm with bird-shit.
“ For Christ’s sake.!”said the man, turning to look at his coat and catching sight of Lathom. Loosing the element of surprise he decided to bide his time.
“Well they say it’s lucky,” said Lathom.
“Yeah, that’s me . Always been lucky”. Lathom smiled but thought we shall see.
“Always had the luck of the irish” he continued.
“Oh, you’re irish are you” asked Lathom, he knew he wasn’t. in fact he knew plenty about this man.
“ Me ? A paddy ! No, just an irish name but it seems to work anyway. I was born and bred here. Ask anyone , they’ll know me. Frank Kelly’s the name.” he held out his hand to Lathom.
“Phil Davies” he answered. Shaking hands without removing his glove. “ Before you ask, I’m english too.” Lathom didn’t want to give too much information just in case he didn’t complete the contract successfully.

“Do I know you ?”
“I don’t know, are you an antique dealer ?”
The man laughed ,a wide smile followed showing large teeth and a gold crown, only the smile stopped short of the eyes which remained cold and questioning.
“I suppose you could call me a dealer, but no ones ever had the balls to call me an antique before.” They both laughed. “ Are you sure I don’t know you? You’re face looks familiar” he continued. Unlikely thought Lathom, it was so long ago, he had hair and a beard then, But Lathom remembered him. He hadn’t known his name then, but now close up he recognised Kelly’s face.This wouldn’t be difficult, in fact it would be a pleasure.
“Funny you should say that, as people never remember my face, even people I know quite well” He smiled .But thought, you’re not leaving this pier, you bastard.He was about to pull the gun, when Kelly asked.
“Do you fish?” He went back to his fishing tackle.
“No, I’ve always been too clumsy. I could never deal with tying the hooks and things.”
“It’s easy, I’ll show you.” Lathom pushed his hands deep into his pockets, he wasn’t going to take off his gloves and leave his finger prints behind. Kelly mistook his actions.
“Yeah, I’m cold too .Want a coffee?”He reached into the bag at his feet and took out a flask,poured some into the cap and offered it to Lathom. Who took it with his left hand, and asked.
“Do you know where I can get a good fried breakfast.”
“A man after my own heart” He replied with the same cold smile. “ Although, don’t blame me for your heart-attack, or early death.” Unlike me thought Lathom, I’ll happily take responsibility for yours.
“Try the café in Victoria Road, behind the station, use my name and they’ll look after you.It’s run by a fella called Roberto,or Robbie. His old man came here as a P.O.W. He may be a wop, but it’s the best breakfast you’ll ever have.” Kelly replied.
Time was running out, people would soon be coming onto the pier, he had to act now. He moved closer. Deliberately pouring the coffee from above down Kelly’s neck. He shot out of his seat.
“What the fuck..!”
“Sorry, I said I was clumsy”. He made a show of wiping his coat down, pushed up Kelly’s hood with his left hand, took the gun from his coat and pressing it against the base of his skull, pulling the trigger. There was a small thud from the silencer and he felt the recoil through his arm. Kelly didn’t make a sound, but stood up to his full height. Lathom debated shooting him again, but then he stumbled forward and fell onto the railings. At first Lathom thought that he would fall over unassisted, but Kelly stuck halfway over, his coat caught on the chicken wire which had been recently added for safety. Lathom seized the legs and lifted them high.There was a tearing sound, and the body tumbled into the sea. He pulled the small piece of cloth that remained off the railings and threw it into the sea. Followed by the gun and silencer.
He dismantled the rod, packed it into the bag and slinging it over his shoulder walked back down the pier. Then dumped the bag his coat and base-ball cap in the wheelie-bins under the pier.

Twenty minutes later he entered the Station Café , and pulling up a stool at the raised counter picked up a menu and ordered a full English and a mug of tea. It arrived promptly , steaming and was excellent. He was just mopping up the last of the egg with a slice of white bread. When the owner approached.
“Good ?” he asked.
“Perfect” replied Lathom. “Just what I expected. A friend recommended you.”
“Where’s your friend then ?” Lathom checked his watch,
“He should be on his way to Ireland by now.”The man wiped the steamed up window with his sleeve and stared out at the grey skies.
“He’s a lucky man”.
Lathom said nothing, just smiled and sipped his tea.

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Chapter 3

He had used the deposit to buy the collection, then restored the gun and old cartridges . Which he nick-named the twelve apostles. Kelly’s body was never found, and the client used that as an excuse not to pay the balance. Well, that’s what you got for dealing with scum he thought. But, he couldn’t be allowed to get away with it. That would be bad for business. If he wouldn’t pay one way then he would have to be made to pay another.
He understood scum. The client would be expecting him to lash out a knee jerk reaction. Lathom was made a sterner stuff he would take his time, wait, plan carefully then execute it. Revenge as they said was a dish best served cold.
It was New years eve over six months since the original contract. The client who had been called Dee had taken to calling himself Mr.Dee and together with his runt of a younger brother and the few young thugs who’d stayed with him after Kelly’s unexplained disappearance had taken over the town’s drugs and prostitution. He would think that Lathom had chickened out wouldn’t risk a shoot out now he had all these guns to protect him. However even though he would never understand it. It was Lathom who had the upper hand. The client didn’t know him, had never met him ,didn’t even know his name or face. More importantly Lathom had time, all the time in the world. The client wasn’t going anywhere, he was just killing time until Lathom chose to kill him.
Over the last few months he had visited the town many times watching and planning. Now the plan was complete. It had to happen tonight. He needed this to warn potential clients that he was not someone to be trifled with.

Lathom had driven up late that afternoon, and in the post-christmas melee of the sales had bought all he needed. A fake fur hat, two large jacket potatoes and a few lengths of tinsel. Carrying the potatoes and the impending kill had made him hungry. So he had passed the next few hours having a leisurely but total indifferent meal.
By 11.30 he was in the road which had the club’s main entrance. For the last few months Lathom had come here every few weeks to watch his target and plan tonight. Every Saturday night he would arrive around mid-night in his large vulgar black limosine . He never drove he was too important for that. He had a driver, and anyway he was probably too drunk by then.They would turn down the side road which swept around behind the club, then park in the alley-way by the rear door. They would then both go inside for about ten or fifteen minutes to check on the takings from the club,and the other more profitable businesses he ran from there.Then they would emmerge the driver would open the rear off-side door and the big man would get in. The driver would then drive carefully between the wheelie-bins and the heavy glass re-cycling bins as the alley was narrow and the car large, around in a loop re-joining the main road and avoiding the one-way system. It was a perfect place for an old style ambush, providing he could stop the car.
As it was new years eve the club was packed with drunked revellers, no-one would take any notice of him, they never did. He was wearing a large overcoat, his Russian style hat and had two pieces of tinsel casually wrapped around his neck. Inside his coat he had a chow mein special and silencer, while his outer pockets held the un-cooked jacket potatoes.Lathom was slumped against the large metal bin. He had made sure the brake on the wheel was locked as it didn’t move when he leant on it.He looked like any other drunk totally invisible to the revellers. The alley was empty as every one was in the club about to welcome in the new year.

It was getting late and the smell of fried onions wafting from the hot-dog stand on the main road made him hungrier. He looked at his watch and wondered if he had time to quickly get one.Decide against it and settled down against the bin the rummbling of his stomach competing with the faint music wafting from the rear door of the club.
Earlier he had seen the younger brother and some of his thugs arrrive in a big black 4x4 with blacked out rear windows and personalised number plate, which made him think of a hearse. At first he thought it was the target as they both looked so similar, shaved heads, perma-tan, diamond ear-ring and a Hollywood-smile. However, this one was smaller, even uglier and if rumour was true even more stupid. They were like two rancid peas in a pod. However when he saw the brothers together all he could think of was Halloween pumpkins.
It was 11.45 the 4x4 and it’s occupants had long since left. Lathom had just stood up to stretch his legs, and had taken an empty bottle from the bin as an added prop when he saw head-lights sweeping across the back wall of the alley.

The car pulled into the alley. In the time since the 4x4 had left Lathom had moved the wheelie bins further into the alley. This made the manoeuvring of the car more difficult and meant that the driver had to park with the near-side doors against the wall.
They both went inside. Lathom sprinted across the alley to the rear of the car took a potatoe from each pocket and pushed them into the exhaust pipes. Then used the heel of his boot to knock them in. He ran back to the bin and took up his position.
Ten minutes later they returned, Lathom held the gun in his right hand behind his back, . He was leaning on the bin his left hand holding the top edge. Although he couldn’t see the door of the club clearly he knew it had opened as the silence was broken by loud music from inside.

They came further across the alley, he could see them over the top of the bin.The driver opened the rear door and his boss got in. Then shut the door and got in himself. He tried to start the car.Lathomr kicked off the bin’s brake and pushed it. It rolled across the alley and struck the drivers door, He sprinted after it and locked the foot brake,trapping the drive inside.
Then stepped around the bin, the target was trying to get out of the car. He had just put one foot on the cobbles when Lathom shoulder charged the door. Catching him half in and half out , he lost his footing and was trapped his free leg desperately flaying trying to find grip.
He opened his mouth to shout abuse, but a silencer pushed between the white teeth silenced him. His eyes opened wide with surprise, Lathom pulled the trigger. Then stepped back and let go of the door, the body tumbled out onto the cobbles.

Without looking down Lathom walked briskly past the car back down the alley to the main road, dropping the gun into a bin as he passed. The street was full of revellers and as he joined the crowd heard a tannoy broadcasting the count-down to the new year. Ten…..Nine…..Eight it continued, but he was thinking of something else. Where could he get that hot-dog now.

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Chapter 4.

The day had started badly and seemed to be getting worse. It was early February and Lathom was in his shop. Business was quiet and he had been trying to fill in the empty hours by doing some research on an item he had just bought.
People often brought in items for identification or valuation. The sign above the door proclaimed him as an antique dealer specialising in antiquarian books, silver and militaria ,and the item before him now was of the latter category. It was a short sword.
First thing that morning one of his fellow traders Tony who did house clearances had brought it in to see if he was interested. He wasn’t quite sure what it was but he made him an offer which had been rather too readily accepted. Leaving Lathom feeling that he had over paid.
It had obviously had a hard life, the end of the scabbard was missing, the blade slightly rusty, not particularily sharp, and long ago someone had painted the unusual guard black. Initially he thought it was a modified weapon, probably shortened from a larger one when the blade was broken. But the more he examined it the more he was convinced that it was original. What was it ? Who used a short stubby sword ? So far his best guest was that it was a naval cutlass. But which navy and how old was it ?

The weather had been dreadful for the last week and the river in full flood. Now the forecast was for snow and high winds. He had been listening to the local news on his portable radio , while looking through his reference books as the power had gone off unexpectedly. A call to the electricity help-line told him it was due to the snow and that they thought it would be off for a least three hours . Just as he was about to complain that there wasn’t any snow, he saw the first few flakes falling. He had already eaten lunch and as he hadn’t seen a customer all day decided to cut his losses and go home before the predicted heavy snow arrived.
Home promised a roaring log fire, some cold cuts of meat, cheese and a good port. Also with power internet access to continue his research. Then later continue writing his history of the light infantry or even open that special bottle of single malt the Philips’ had given him. Perhaps it wouldn’t be such a bad day after all ?
He stuck the closed sign in the shop window ,picked up his reference books and cutlass. The car was only parked a short way away, but by the time he reached it the snow was already falling heavily.
Making his way out of town he followed the road west toward the welsh border. His cottage was just over it. He had owned it for a few years now, and had made some improvements, including re-wiring it himself, but it was still substantially as he had bought it a small isolated cottage. Not so much a home, rather somewhere to house his collections.

He carried on driving along the A-road following a gritting lorry, the snow was falling heavily now and he was glad he had decided to come home early. Then turned right onto the B-road that led to his cottage, this had still not been gritted and the lack of many tyre tracks showed how quiet it was before the commuter headed back to their homes.
Lathom was thinking about the cutlass. It could never be considered beautiful too short and functional. It wasn’t an elegant offices sabre or a duelling rapier, it was a hacking weapon one step up from a hatchet or machete. Where ever it came from , however old it was, it had been used for close quarters fighting on board ship, were a long blade was a liability. No doubt it had an interesting and bloody history, a trait it shared with it’s new owner.

His thoughts turned to his cottage, or more importantly whether to open the malt first or wait until later. He had been quite touched when the Philips’ had given it to him.He wasn’t one for giving or receiving gifts as he had few friends.
They lived in the other small cottage on the main road a few hundred yards passed the entrance to his track. Although he had lived here a few years they hadn’t got to know him until recently, they like Lathom liked their privacy. He respected that.
Then out of the blue they had asked his advice.They had inherited some furniture from an aunt in north wales, which was too large for their cottage. A local dealer had offered them little for it, as he said it had some damaged to the french polish from damp and that there was little call for old dark furniture.
Furniture wasn’t really his field, but knew enough to know it was seriously under-valued. So, he put them in touch with a colleague, who had given them considerably more. From then on relations had been considerably more cordial .So much so that when they had brought the bottle over yesterday as a thank-you, he had volunteered to keep an eye on their cottage while they visited relatives this weekend.
He had been deep in thought and was about to drive passed the entrance to his track on his way to check the Philips’ cottage, when he saw the headlight of a car coming down the track. It was much to late for the post-man, and the track was a dead-end finishing at his cottage. Lathom slowed down and as he passed the entranced watched the car pull out onto the road behind him in his rear view mirror.
It was a large black 4x4, he recognised the number plate and the driver. How had they found him? He was sure it wasn’t a social call. Lathom indicated and pulled into the Philips’ drive. The car carried on , then pulled over and stopped in the lay-by a few hundred yards further on.

He sat in his car for a few moments. What could he do now? As far as he could see he had two options. Either drive off and lay low until they left. It would definitely be they, otherwise why was the driver waiting. But no doubt they would work out their frustrations by destroying his home. He couldn’t bear the thought of scum like that touching his things.But then he would have to spend the rest of his life looking over his shoulder awaiting their return.The next time he might not be so lucky.
Or he could use the advantage of surprise to finish it now, tonight. He couldn’t let any of them leave alive.
He could assume that they would have come mob-handed as the younger brother wouldn’t risk it alone, after what had happened to his brother. He was sure it must be him, he would want revenge. How had they found him? He thought he had been so careful. Well, he would worry about that later, if he had a later .
There were probably four of them then, could be five, the car would hold five.But they were big men, wouldn’t want to crease their designer suits.He was sure they would think four was more than enough to deal with him.
They would probably want it look like a burglary that went wrong. It wouldn’t be a straight execution. Probably want to beat him up or torture him to get their kicks. Then kill him , ransack or even burn down the cottage and his collections.
One in the car, so three left. The brother must have taken over the gang otherwise why risk this for revenge there was no profit in it. No doubt he wouldn’t be sitting outside in the snow, too important now. They would have broken in, and he was probably drinking his whiskey now. That left two, they’d need a look out to tell them when he turned into the track, so that the driver could follow him down the track and close the trap. Then the last one would either be in the cottage with his boss or hiding in his garage.He had recently fitted it with an electric door as part of his re-wiring, and the control was on the dashboard in front of him.
Before he could plan he needed to see what he had with him that he could use. Lathom got out of the car, the snow was still falling heavily . If he had been a few minutes later arriving home he wouldn’t have seen the cars tracks and walked straight into their ambush.
In the boot he found a tool kit, spanners , black insulation tape,tow-rope and a tyre lever. Also a yellow reflective waistcoat ( as recommended by the R.A.C. for road side emergencies.)and a rather oily bobble hat .He had learned the hard way that a bald head gave little protection when working under his car. He also had the cutlass.

People always thought that in a fight between a man with a gun and one with a knife or sword, the gun had the advantage. While this was true in most cases, the range or element of surprise could level the odds or even make the knife superior. However, he could hardly walk up to the driver with a sword without arousing suspicion.
It was the driver he needed to deal with first.Reducing the odds and cutting off their escape route.
Lathom left the cutlass in the car and toyed with the tyre-lever, it was about twelve inches long ( He didn’t do metric ) with a tyre lever on one end and a large socket on the other, perfect. Put on the bobble hat and the reflective coat. The way to be invisible is to be very visible he thought. Who’d be alarmed by a fat man in a bobble hat, especially on a night like this. Slipping the tyre lever up the right sleeve of his coat so that he cradled the socket in the palm of his gloved hand. He strode along the road to the stationary 4x4.

Chapter 5.

The driver was cold and bored, even with the engine running all the heating seemed to do was steam up the windows. He didn’t want to be here, what was the point of it, Dee was dead anyway.Why take risks, just for revenge.He had to sit and wait until they called him. Wiping the side window with his gloved hand he saw a figure approaching in the door mirror.
The man, it was definitely a man was wearing a bright yellow reflective vest and had a thick wooly hat pulled down almost to his eyes.He was walking toward the car rather than on the path on the other side . Probably some inbreed local coming to tell him he couldn’t park here thought the driver.

Lathom walked up to the car and tapped on the drivers window with his left hand, allowing the tyre lever to slide through his right, so that he was holding it half-way down. The electric window slid slowly down and the driver gave Lathom a bad tempered scowl and said .‘ What ?’
The first blow caught him full in the face with a satisfying crunch of bone and cartiledge. The driver cried out and put his hands to his face. Lathom opened the door and pulled him out by his collar. As he feel to the ground he hit him twice with full force on the back of his head.
Lathom dragged the body around to the other side of the car, which shielded him from the road, heaved it in through the rear door and propt it as though resting. Then climbed in the other side and went through his pockets.

Wallet, containing credit cards. Name P.R .Wilkinson., £ 235 in cash and some loose change. A mobile phone and a very vulgar chrome plated automatic. He was appalled by the last item it wasn’t a weapon more like jewellery, but decided he would have use it anyway . So slipped it in his pocket together with the phone. Then searched the rest of the car and it’s boot for any thing useful, but found only a can of petrol and a silencer which didn’t fit the driver’s gun. Lathom got into the drivers seat the key was still in the ignition in the centre of the dashboard. Pushed the selector into drive and moved the car onto the Philips’ drive behind his own.
The privacy glass shielding the body from view if anyone had been around to look. The road was deserted and the snow still falling heavily covering all the windows in a few minutes.
Lathom examined the phone and was soon able to listen to the messages and read the texts.Why was it people needed to send so many texts about so little he thought. However he now knew the four, it was definitely four. Consisted of Wilko, who was odviously his silent companion on the back seat.Someone called C.J.who was hiding at the end of the track keeping watch for him, and also very pissed off that he was the only one outside in the cold.Leaving two others, the brother and his right hand man who seemed to give most of the orders called Jacko. Lathom wondered how much longer it would be before that was Mr.Jackson.

So he thought .One down, three to go. At least the odds were getting better and he still had the element of surprise .It was they who were now trapped even if they didn’t realise it yet. Step by step, don’t rush it. Plan carefully then execute. That’s what he had been taught. A long time ago, but it still applied. He now had a gun, but no silencer. Once he fired it he would then have to shoot it out with them. He needed to reduce the odds.
He couldn’t use the previous plan the other man was hiding somewhere near the end of his track, he would never get close enough that way. Couldn’t use the gun,too noisey.That just left the cutlass.

It was quite dark now, but was still snowing and the wind had got up. Visibility was getting worse. Lathom was wearing the drivers coat and hat, his gun in the inside pocket as a last resort. Tucked inside the coat he had the cutlass without it’s scabbard. While in the outside pocket he had the driver’s phone, switched to silent mode.He had climbed over the fence at the Philips’ cottage and had worked his way carefully, keeping close to the hedge. Until he was now only a few yards from the end of his track. Still he couldn’t see the man. He hoped that if he were spotted early, he would be mistaken for the driver.

Suddenly Lathom saw the man he had nearly stumbled into him in the blizzard. He was huddled down behind the hedge at the end of the track, looking down the road away from him. The distance was critical, if he turned now he was close enough that CJ would see he was not the driver and have time to draw his gun. He had to get closer .

Crouching down close to the hedge, he took the cutlass out clutching it in his right hand. In his left he held the phone, flipped it open and dialled.
The man swore,stood up and fumbled in his coat. Lathom took his cue, leapt to his feet and covered the remaining yards in a surprisingly short time for someone of his age and condition.

He was almost upon him when the man turned, saying. ‘ Hello! hello.Speak up! I can’t hear you’.Then startled , dropped his phone and made a desparate attempt to get his gun from deep inside his coat.
Lathom’s blow caught him between the collar and shoulder of his coat, biting deep into his flesh. The man let out one high piercing scream, before the second blow silenced him and partial severed his neck. He lay at Lathom’s feet a large pool of blood soaking into the snow, the phone by his side.
He switched off the driver’s phone and bent down to pick up the other phone.
Suddenly, it bleeped, it was a text message.
He checked the text. Which read “U. O.K.?” He thought for a minute remembered the texts from CJ on the driver’s phone, then texted . “ O.K. but f’ing cold”.
The next read, “ What was that noise ?”.
He replied. “f’ing foxes”.That seem to satisfy them and the texts stopped

Chapter 6.

Two down, two to go. The odd continued to get better for Lathom. But, he had to act quickly. Soon they would get restless text again or even call. He couldn’t carry on bluffing. At the moment they felt secure. Still felt the other two were looking out for them. He could still surprise them.
He wouldn’t be able to creep-up on them both, or burst into the cottage guns blazing, who knew what might get damaged. He needed to think. So while thinking walked back to the 4x4 with it’s silent passenger, then drove back to collect his colleague.

Half an hour later, still an hour before he was due home. Lathom was driving with some difficulty up the track to his cottage in the 4x4. He was struggling not just because it was automatic(another pet hate), but because he wasn’t in the driving seat. He had driven part way up the track slowly with only side-lights on, then stopped where the track curved. From here is ran perfectly straight up to the cottage, he changed seats.
Now the driving seat was occupied by the driver, black insulating tape holding his gloved hands on the steering wheel and his head upright against the head rest ,a scarf covering his smashed face. The passenger seat contained CJ, tied to the seat with the tow rope. Lathom was crouched behind the drivers seat his right hand holding the driver’s gun and his left reached between the front seats and steered the car. He had switched on the head-lights and put the car in drive and slowly crept up the track to the cottage. He stopped alongside the cottage pulling the selector into park.

Whoever came out first he would kill, then worry about the other. He thought they would have broken in through the back door, so would come out that way. But the first one came out of the front door behind the car. He couldn’t see Lathom due to the privacy glass. Stormed up to the car and hammered on the glass.
‘What the fuck are you playing at ?’.
Lathom reached over and opened the driver’s window. The man leaned inside shouting.
Then saw the corpses staring dead-eyed straight ahead, opened his mouth and received a bullet in the side of his head. Lathom closed the window reaching over pulled the keys from the dash-board . Three.
Slowly he opened the near-side rear door and slide out, shutting it behind him. He crept along the side of the car. Where was that little shit ?
The front door mirror exploded in a shower of glass. Ah, that’s where he thought ,
behind the old pig-sty. Lathom slowly slide down the side of the car to the tail-gate.
Things were certainly looking up. The odds were now even. Two men, two guns.

Now it was just a matter of holding your nerve, who ever moved first would die.
He needed to get him to move from the pig-sty. How could he do it ?
It was dark, every time one of them moved the security lights came on. Lathom cursed himself, he had just installed the lights . There was a switch which allowed them to be permanently on, or controlled by the infra-red sensors, but that was inside.
He moved very slowly along the tail-gate, if he moved very slowly he didn’t trigger the lights. Occasionaly the rear light would come on as the man tried to move round the side of the pig-sty, but he quickly retreated and stayed put. How could he get him to show his face, so he could get a clear shot?
‘Are you having a good day out ? No, I suppose not.’ Lathom shouted.
‘Must have seemed like such a good idea, a nice trip to the country and a murder.’
‘Four young thugs in shiny suits, with shiny guns and their shiny hearse.’
‘Now, there’s only you, don’t worry there’s room in the back for one more.’
Lathom was crouching behind the off-side rear light his gun trained on the side of the sty, if the man leaned out he would have a clean shot.
‘Which brother are you, Tweedle-dum or tweedle-dee? Oh, he was Dee, so that makes you dumb ’
He saw the sihouette of the man’s head as the security light came on and fired.
Click! Click! The gun had jammed.

Lathom had a difficult decision to make. Wait here until the man came to kill him, or run across the open space between the car and the front door of the house , hope the man missed. He had a gun in the house, but once he moved the security light would come on and he would be a sitting target. He needed a diversion.
‘when I get my hands on you I’m going to burn you alive in this shit-hole of yours’. shouted the man.
That’s what the petrol was for thought Lathom. So far the man hadn’t realised the gun had jammed. Lathom was furious as he had left CJ’s gun in his jacket as he was sure one would be enough, serve him right for being too smug. It could be a fatal mistake, he thought. If he could trigger another of the lights it would shake things up.
In his pocket he still had the remote control for the garage door. He wasn’t sure if it would work from this distance. He hoped that if the door opened it would trigger the rear light keeping the man behind the pig-sty. Then he could sprint to the house as the man wouldn’t see his light come on. He would have to time it carefully.

Lathom pressed the remote, heard a faint whirring. The rear light clicked on, he was immediately on his feet and sprinting for the front door. The side light clicked on and he threw himself through the door, bolting it behind him. Then charged through the cottage and bolted the rear door. They said an englishmans home was his castle, this was Lathom‘s. Now he needed a weapon. Switching off the lights as he went he went up stairs to his study. He knew the cottage so well he could easily move around in the dark.

In the study he slid open the role-top desk, pulled out the draw and reached into the secret compartment. Withdrew a package which contained the Webley and the twelve apostles. He loaded it with , Peter, John, Paul, Matthew, Luke and Thomas, with the other saints in his pocket as reserves.

From the study window he could see the sty, but couldn’t get a clean line of sight. He needed to draw him out. Lathom went down stairs to the a light switch and switched it on., the security lights were now permanently on, flood-lighting the land all around the cottage. Effectively trapping the man behind the sty. He quietly opened a small side window on the side of the kitchen furthest away from the sty, and shouted.
‘ Still enjoying yourself ,sitting shivering and shitting yourself in your shiney suit. ?’
‘ Wait til’ I get my hands on you, you bastard !’was the reply. Followed by a shot which hit the stone wall along side the window.’
‘I’d be more concerned by what I’ve got planned for you’ said Lathom. ‘As far as I can see you’ve two choices .Make a run for it, but I’ve got your car keys and anyway I’d cut you down before you got half way.’
‘Or you can throw out your gun .Come out from behind your sty kneel down and I’ll put you out of your misery’ Another bullet hit the wall.
‘Don’t worry it’ll only take one bullet, like your brother’. A third shot hit the wall. Now he only had three bullets left while Lathom had all twelve.
The snow had stopped and the moon was illuminating the fields around the bright oasis of light that the cottage had become. Lathom was sitting on the floor by the back door which he had quietly un-bolted and opened .The bright spot lights cast the dooway in shadow, from outside you couldn’t tell it was open. He had his eyes tightly shut to accustom himself to the dark.

‘Coming ready or not.’ he shouted. Stood up, and switched off the main power supply. All the light went out. Crouching down he slipped out through the door out into the pale moon light. A bullet smashed into the wall above his head. Two left he thought.
He only had a brief time before the mans eyes would become used to the dark. He pulled back the hammer on the Webley, and ran straight towards the sty, the man heard his foot steps and fired wildly in his direction. One left.
Then turned and began to run. Lathom could see him quite clearly. Could have easily killed him from this range but chose to shoot low and hit him in the leg. He was running quickly so tumbled head over heals in a cloud of snow, his chromed gun reflecting the moon-light as it tumbled out of his hand.
Lathom strode over toward the prone man, who was frantically scrabbling in the deep snow looking for his gun.
‘Time to meet St. Peter.’he said. The man looked frightened and puzzled. ‘What ?’
‘No, not at the pearly gates, he’s here in this .’
The pumpkin face imploded

Lathom sat in his kitchen a glass of malt in front of him, together with the chrome gun. The silencer from the 4x4 fitted perfectly as did the cartridges from CJ’s gun. He was looking through the man’s phone for clues to his betrayer. There it was in the contacts a name he recognised. RICHARDSON.
He would have to act quickly, once Richardson realised the hearse wasn’t coming back he would send someone-else. So it had to be tomorrow.
The hearse was parked safely in his locked garage, three bodies inside and their boss in the boot. When he returned he planned to dump it into the swollen river. Hopefully the police would think it a drug deal that had gone wrong.

..................................................

Chapter 7.

It was late. Where was he? He should have arrived by now. The drip was really annoying Lathom now. He hadn’t slept well last night, too much adrenaline or malt. He felt exhausted and hungry.

Then he saw him, it was definitely him. He was hurrying in a rush to catch his train.
It was important to get the timing right. As he drew closer Lathom stood up held out the magazine in his left hand. ‘Big Issue! Help the home-less.’ He wasn’t going to stop.
‘Big Issue!! Help the home-less Sir !!’ He brushed Lathom aside, carried on his way. As he passed Lathom said ‘You mean bastard , you can afford it’. He stopped and turned, said ‘What did you say!!’. He had got him now. Lathom backed towards the doorway, into the shadows. ‘ I said you’re a mean bastard Richardson.’angling the chrome automatic and silencer in his pocket . Richardson advanced towards him, threatingly. ‘How do you know my name ?’ He was only a few feet away, Lathom pulled the trigger. Nothing. He had left the safety catch on, he clicked it off and fired .Richardson had closed the distance in the time it took him to fire. The angulation wasn’t quite right, at first he thought that he had missed. Then Richardson stopped and made a chocking noise.The bullet had hit him in the throat, his hands came up as though trying to stem the flow of blood and he toppled forward. Lathom side stepped him as he fell into the doorway.

Bundling the body onto the step he covered it with his coat, put an empty beer can in it’s hand. Then tucked the gun under it , and walked up the alley towards the station and a well earned chocolate éclair.

THE END