Dillon’s appearance had complicated matters for Winston. He knew it wouldn’t be long before the police arrived in strength, but if he could avoid capture until a train came in, he could still get away. He was sure the next one would stop.
He decided he’d pop this one too, just for the hell of it. After all, it wasn’t as if he had anything to lose – the penalty for offing three pigs was no more severe than it was for offing one.
Dillon raised both hands in the air, being careful to move with exaggerated slowness. He didn’t want his actions to provoke Winston unnecessarily, or to give him an excuse. He wondered where the hell Jack was. “Look, I’m unarmed and I won’t do anything silly. I don’t want to die. Just let me take this lad out of here and get him some help. It’ll be better for you in the long run too, Claude.” He spoke slowly, disarmingly, while walking slowly, ever so slowly, towards Winston. He needed to be a lot nearer if – no, when – the right moment presented itself.
“Don’t use my fucking name, pig! I don’t know you; you’re not my friend,” Winston spewed the words out in a fit of uncontrolled rage. He began waving the gun around dangerously, oblivious to the fact that it was cocked and would discharge under the slightest pressure.
Every fibre in Dillon’s body cried out for him to dive down onto the floor, to take cover before it was too late, before this raving lunatic shot him dead, but he somehow forced himself to remain standing. He half expected a bullet to tear into him at any moment, and a part of him wondered if he would feel the impact before he heard the noise.
Suddenly there was movement behind Winston.
Jack!
Forcing himself to breathe deeply, Dillon took another step towards Winston. “You’re brave enough with that gun, scumbag, but just how tough are you without it? Why don’t we find out?” he taunted, staring the other man straight in the eye.
“Fuck you copper,” Winston snarled. He had intended to usher the cop through the door before shooting him, but no one talked to him like that.
He pointed the gun at Dillon and fired.
◆◆◆
After leaving work, The Disciple went straight to his lair. He had spent the day being nice to people he despised, and now he was feeling tired and crotchety. The drudgery of wearing his other persona for so many hours had drained him, and he desperately craved the solace of his own company.
He hadn’t returned home since Sunday evening, and he grimaced at the thought of spending yet another uncomfortable night on the lumpy camp bed in the corner. Not that he would be getting any shut-eye for a while; there was still far too much to do before he could allow himself the luxury of sleep. For starters, he needed to case the house in Hanbury Street again, to confirm it was still accessible. There was no reason to think it wouldn’t be; he had already checked it out several times, but one didn’t achieve greatness by being sloppy.
He knew his plans for tomorrow night were incredibly ambitious, and the weaker part of him, the remnants of his old persona, was afraid he was biting off more than he could chew by going for the double whammy. Well, tough. He had made his mind up and he had no intention of changing it.
He had already disposed of the plastic sheeting that had been used to line the van when he took his first victim. It had been burned, along with all the clothing he had worn. The vehicle’s insides had been scrubbed with bleach and vigorously swept. New plastic sheeting needed to be laid before tomorrow, and he would attend to that as soon as he changed into a paper suit.
At least he didn’t have to keep looking over his shoulder, afraid the police were breathing down his neck; they were so far off the scent that he was almost tempted to start leaving them clues, just to make it more interesting.
Tomorrow night was going to be extremely challenging, but he had been thorough in his research and he knew his intended prey’s routines inside out. He would require a little luck to pull this off, but he was confident he would have it; he could feel the power he’d attained from completing the first ritual cruising through his veins, and he knew it was already influencing destiny in his favour.
If there was a glitch – if, for some reason, he was unable to snatch the first one within the time frame he had allotted – he would just have to be pragmatic about it and move onto his second target. It wouldn’t be the end of the world, although he had to admit that on a personal level it would really piss him off. The goading message he’d left at the first murder scene had been a clear statement of intent, letting the world know that greater things were to follow. Now he needed to back up his boast with a grand gesture. If he achieved success tomorrow, no one would ever be able to say that he had failed to live up to the promised hype.
◆◆◆
Tyler made his way along the deserted westbound platform. About a third of the way down, he came to a door that said: STAFF ONLY – STRICTLY NO ADMITTANCE. He turned the handle carefully, praying it wasn’t locked. The door swung inwards on well-oiled hinges revealing an unlit corridor that ran between the platforms.
Closing the door behind him, Jack crept along the dark passageway, which contained several storerooms and an assortment of industrial cleaning equipment, toward a distant shimmer of light, which he assumed was leaking in through the door to the eastbound platform. He
