Heathen/Nemesis

He scurried over to the taxi rank. None of the vehicles had just picked up. There was no sign of Donna or the other woman. He stood on the pavement, hands on his hips.

‘Fuck,’ he rasped, knowing he’d lost them. He turned and walked slowly back into the station, heading for the payphones. He found one that took money rather than a card and dialled a number.

His hands were shaking.

It was picked up after a couple of rings.

‘Farrell,’ the voice at the other end said.

‘It’s Ryker,’ he said, trying to control the anxiety in his voice.

‘Well?’

‘We lost her.’

At the other end the phone was slammed down.

Sixty

The headlights of the Fiesta cut through the darkness.

It was almost 2.45 a.m. The roads were all but deserted south of London. The deeper into Kent Julie drove the more the two women began to feel as if they were the only people left on earth. Nothing was moving on the roads apart from them, it seemed.

Perhaps it was a good thing.

It was all Julie could do to concentrate on driving, as she listened incredulously to the chain of events her sister recounted.

Donna felt exhausted, drained both physically and emotionally. She lay slumped in the passenger seat, a jacket around her knees to keep her warm. The heating was on inside the car but it did little to drive out the chill that seemed to have settled in her bones. Recalling what had happened to her, especially on the train, served to intensify that cold.

She had come so close to death.

She shuddered.

Was that how Chris had felt seconds before he died?

She closed her eyes for a moment.

‘We should call the police,’ said Julie.

Donna ignored her.

She was thinking of what had happened on the train. About the two men, their threats. Their fear of the man who had sent them to find her. What had Ryker said his name was?

‘Donna, I said we should call the police. This is too serious now,’ Julie persisted.

Farrell. She opened her eyes, her tired mind gradually focusing on that name.

On that face.

‘My God,’ she whispered. ‘It was the man at the house the day Chris was buried.’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘I told you that one of the men on the train kept saying that Farrell needed information from me, that Farrell had said I wasn’t to be killed. That day at the house, the day of the funeral, I caught a man in Chris’s office going through his papers. His name was Farrell. Peter Farrell.’

‘It could be a coincidence.’

‘It could, but I doubt it. He was looking for something that day; he said it was a book. Those men were looking for information about a book. Farrell sent them. It’s the same man, I’m sure of it.’

‘Even if it is, what does it prove?’

‘It proves that Chris had something Farrell wanted. Something he thinks I’ve now got. Something which he was prepared to kill for.’

‘Then call the police,’ Julie insisted.

‘They haven’t been able to protect me so far,’ Donna snapped.

‘So what are you going to do with the guns? Shoot anyone who attacks you?’

‘Did you bring them all?’

‘Yes, and the ammunition. They’re in the boot. You didn’t answer my question.’ She looked across at her sister. ‘Donna, you can’t take the law into your own hands. This isn’t America. It’s not some bloody film where the heroine straps on a gun and blows away the bad guys. This is reality.’

‘And it was reality on that train when I was nearly killed,’ Donna answered angrily.

‘Who do you think you are? A female Charles Bronson? Call the police, for Christ’s sake.’

‘Julie, whoever those men are, whoever this Farrell is, they want something badly enough to kill for it. They might have killed Chris. They’ve tried to kill me. If they try again, they might not be too fussy about who they hurt in the process.’ She looked at her sister. ‘You’re in danger, too. Perhaps it would be best if you left me at the cottage and went back to London. I’ve already involved you more than I should have. You should get out while you still can.’

‘You really think I’d leave you now?’ said Julie softly.

‘I wouldn’t blame you if you did.’

‘I’m staying with you, Donna. No matter what. But I’ll tell you something, I’m scared and I don’t mind admitting it.’

‘Join the club,’ Donna said flatly.

They drove most of the remainder of the journey in silence, speeding through Kent into West Sussex, along roads flanked by hedges and trees, past isolated houses and farms.

It was approaching 3.15 when the headlamps picked out a sign that proclaimed:

WARDSBY 15 MILES

CHICHESTER 18 MILES

Donna instructed Julie to take the left-hand fork in the road.

Sixty-One

The ferocity of the assault lifted Peter Farrell off his feet.

He was slammed into the wall with crushing force and enough power to knock the wind from him. Reeling from the onslaught, he toppled forward but managed to keep his feet until a second attack pinned him to the wall and held him there.

‘You said you would get the book,’ snarled Francis Dashwood, gripping Farrell by the collar. ‘We relied on you and you failed.’

Farrell recoiled, not from the verbal tirade but from the rank stench that wafted over him every time Dashwood spoke. It was a smell like rotting meat, a rancid, cloying odour that made him nauseous.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said breathlessly, trying to inhale as little of the fetid air as possible.

‘Your apologies are no good to us,’ roared Richard Parsons. ‘We need the book, not your pathetic excuses.’

Dashwood let out a howl of frustration and hurled Farrell across the room. He crashed into a table, somersaulted over it and landed heavily on the carpet. He lay there for a moment before rolling over and getting to his knees.

The other two men advanced upon him.

‘It has kept us alive for over two hundred years,’ Dashwood told him. ‘Get it.’

Farrell clambered to his feet, breathing heavily, forced to inhale the reeking smell. He looked at the other two