The man closed the door behind him and stood there, head cocked to one side.
On the landing, not twenty feet away from him, tears streamed down the young girl’s cheeks and she shook as she endeavoured to keep her crying silent, to hold back from uttering something which would have revealed her position. The man actually looked up the stairs. She was sure she would be spotted. If he had turned the light on, he would have seen her.
Then came more voices from the kitchen, raised higher, more desperate, then another shotgun blast, screams, the sound of a scuffle. The man who had just entered the house slid down the hallway out of sight.
Charlotte almost collapsed with tension.
Things went quiet. She could not even begin to imagine what was going on, had no conception of what might have happened.
After all, she was merely a teenager.
One who had recently discovered that the man she thought was her father, wasn’t. Wickson had taken the revelation badly, and so had she. But even worse, he had reacted in such a way that had sent Charlotte spiralling out of control. He hated her. He had told her as much. Hated the fact she was not his flesh and blood, despised her, wanted to disown her, rejected her desire to be loved unconditionally by him, pushed her away and called her horrible names which were more applicable to a prostitute on the streets.
As if it was her fault.
She had been hurt, confused and upset by the revelation. She had known her parents’ marriage was not good, had not been for years, that they increasingly led separate lives. Yet, like all kids, she believed they would stay together.
Her mother had tried to keep things going, and for some reason, although she blamed her mother for the situation, she could not bring it in her heart to hate her.
It screwed her mind. Chewed her up, spat her out.
The drugs had saved her, or so she thought. They were an escape. So was the alcohol. So was her horse. . her poor horse. Now he had been hurt too.
And then she had been raped.
And now this. What was going on in the kitchen?
It all went quiet.
She came silently down the stairs, knowing exactly where to tread, which steps creaked, which were safe. At the foot of the stairs, she stayed still, listening. Nothing. She walked down the hall to the kitchen door, which she pushed slowly open.
She saw the legs first. Her mother’s legs.
She opened the door wide, ran in and slid down next to Tara, whose face was covered in thick red blood pouring out of a deep, nasty cut on her temple.
‘Mum,’ she cried. ‘Oh, Mum.’ She believed Tara was dead. Then she groaned and moved, spreading relief through Charlotte.
Just then, the young girl glanced quickly round and her eyes fixed on Jake Coulton’s lifeless body.
At first it took a few moments for her juvenile brain to register what it was seeing.
Then she screamed.
The three men heard the scream, even from where they were, almost 200 metres away from the house. All three heads turned to look.
‘My daughter,’ Wickson gasped.
Henry gave him a stare laced with ice, but said nothing.
They had reached the point where the excavator and the crusher were parked up for the night. They looked at the machines, immense pieces of equipment. The crusher was designed to be fed bricks, stone, rubble, boulders or whatever, which it literally crushed to a specified size and then spewed out via a conveyor belt either into a pile, or into another machine called a screener which further sorted the stone.
Henry had often seen them on building sites which were being prepared and cleared of debris prior to building actually taking place. The use of the crusher meant that nothing was wasted. He knew very little about the machines, but could easily imagine the power that the jaw-like crushers would need to exert to break up stones and rocks. He had never before stood next to such a machine. It was huge.
What they might do to a man unfortunate enough to fall into the jaws was unthinkable.
‘OK, John,’ Verner said brightly, ‘climb up on to the machine.’
‘Why?’
Henry almost tutted. Wickson had not got it.
‘Just climb up there and stand next to the jaws.’
Then it dawned on him.
‘No.’ He shook his head. ‘No.’
Verner stepped back and swung the shotgun round to point directly at Wickson’s face. ‘Just remember what this did to Mr Coulton.’
Wickson looked at Henry, who could do or say nothing to help. Whatever happened here, death was inevitable. How it happened was the issue.
Reluctantly, Wickson clambered up the ladder on the side of the crusher and stood gaping down into its huge metal jaws.
Verner pressed a button on the side of the machine. The engine of the crusher coughed horribly and its powerful diesel engine came to life. He pressed another button on the control panel and the crushers started to move, to grind nonexistent substances.
‘Jump in,’ Verner shouted. He raised the shotgun.
Wickson shook his head.
‘Do as you’re told.’
Wickson’s eyes were drawn inexorably to the powerful jaws. He had been working with crushers in the building trade for many years and had stood in this position many times. He knew exactly what the jaws could do.
He turned away, horrified by the thought.
‘Fuck it,’ Verner said. ‘I knew this would happen.’ He fired the shotgun. The blast punched Wickson in the stomach, as though he had been hit by a fist. He staggered backwards and dropped into the mouth of the crusher, into the jaws which immediately began to devour him, churning him into an unrecognizable mush, swallowing him into its belly. He was passed underneath a powerful magnet designed to sort out any metallic objects from the rubble, then he was disgorged on to the conveyor belt, as though it was serving up a meal.
The magnet had lifted his Rolex watch up.
There was nothing left of Wickson that was discernibly recognizable as human. What remains existed were deposited on the pile of shale that had once been bricks and rock.
‘My god, you fucking brutal bastard,’ Henry said, deeply shocked.
‘Name of the game. . Now it’s your turn, Henry,’ he shouted over the engine noise. ‘They’ll never be able to tell you apart when you both get slopped together in a bucket. Now get up there and jump in, or I’ll shoot you and carry you up there myself. I’m good at the fireman’s lift.’
Verner backed away from Henry, cautious, keeping him covered all the while. Henry reached out to the crusher and placed a toe on to the ladder on its side.
The sniper had seen the three males emerge from the rear of the house and walk towards the stables. Looking down the telescopic sight of the AW sniper rifle, he recognized Henry and John Lloyd Wickson and then — unbelievably — Verner.
He swore.
He had not seen Verner enter the house. How good was that? Hell, he must have been dozing or something. How had he got in without being seen? The sniper was sure he had been looking hard and concentrating, but sometimes you can try too hard and then miss very simple things. Maybe that’s what he had been doing. Alternatively Verner could have got in through the back of the house somehow.
The sniper smirked as he watched the three men progress towards the stables, Verner taking up a position between them, shotgun in hands, pointing loosely at Henry.
A good move by Verner. It gave him just enough protection.
The sniper’s mind raced: what the hell had gone on inside the house? Where was the wife, the daughter?
On reaching the site machinery at the stables, the men disappeared out of his sight completely behind the crusher.
Next thing, Wickson was standing on the platform on top of it and the crusher fired up moments later.