Can You Hear the Rats, Billy?

A few more musings on the man with no name, seeking retribution for past wrongs. A venal character without a shred of conscience, he’d normally be one side of the struggle between good and evil. His opponents, his victims, however, are mainly evil men in their own right. A difficult dilemma is posed here. How to differentiate between the characters. Should there be a demarcation? Are there any good guys here or are the characters merely representing different aspects of the same absence of accepted virtues, each possessing markedly antisocial traits?

At this early stage, I’ve no idea. In some ways, I wish I possessed that ability to plan an entire novel in advance, but by taking an idea and running with it, seeing where it leads, I’ve surprised even myself in the past. My system may be imperfect, but it’s all I have at my disposal. As always, this is a rough draft; unedited and far from the finished article. Written ‘as it comes’ and not checked at any stage. Please forgive errors.

 

 

Dangerous men have a certain air about them that is most evident in the way they walk, the way they hold themselves, the aura that surrounds them. It isn’t necessary to speak. By their very presence they proclaim, loud and proud, ‘I’m better than you. It will be pointless to even attempt to defeat me.’

He’d known many men like the two who were charged with protecting the Big Man. Worthy adversaries all. Yet he did not fear them. For there was a level even beyond them. The very best give no signs of their prowess. They do not posture. They don’t need to. They possess an assurance that renders the proclamation of an image unnecessary. He knew he could defeat anyone in his path. That knowledge wasn’t rational. He couldn’t supply evidence to support it. That contrary nature, defying logic, was the basis of his power. He felt himself invincible, even when everything logical suggested otherwise. He was insane and therein lay the element that would decide the outcome.

He walked slowly, yet with purpose, his head oscillating deliberately from side to side, eyes scanning the area like CCTV cameras, his mind churning.

He’d killed many times. Sometimes with a purpose in mind. The men he had to overcome could relate to that. Where he had the edge was in that irrational nature where he’d kill, apparently without purpose. Because he could. Because he enjoyed killing. Insanity can affect the manner in which even the most confident men view an opponent. They fear irrational behaviour because there is no prescribed defence. It transcends the norm. They would fear him. He knew it and gloried in the prospect.

The Big Man was well protected and could afford the very best. He knew that. At one time, he’d been the Big Man. The Kingpin. He wanted that position again. He deserved it.

While he’d been imprisoned he’d planned for this day. He’d even discussed it with the doctors. They’d listened, as they always did, with interest. Taken notes. No judgements had been made. They’d assumed, reasonably enough, this was merely an exercise in posturing, to be played out in the mind in lieu of actuality. He was confined, ergo this was just talk. Nothing more. He knew what they thought, accepted their patronising smugness and used it to harden his resolve to gain his freedom. The men he killed or injured while confined appeared random acts of violence. In reality, he was honing his skills in readiness for days like this.

He sensed the eyes that followed his shambling progress. From afar he looked like a drunk. Harmless. Not a serious threat. He dropped to his knees, bent forward as if vomiting in the gutter, his restless eyes alert for the slightest movement.

Nothing.

He sighed and climbed unsteadily to his feet. He’d been misinformed. The Big Man was not here. He should have been intercepted by now. Even harmless drunks were not tolerated anywhere near the Big Man.

He turned, walked slowly back the way he’d come. A dead end.

The road was deserted, even in the middle of the day. A playground stood empty. A few lights shone from the windows of the encircling tower blocks, but that was all. Nobody about. Just a drunk on a bender who didn’t belong here.

He walked away, the tower blocks behind him, his anger and frustration building. A gutted car, windows smashed, partly blocked a side road. The original owner would have long since given up any hope of its return. There were no police here. He didn’t expect to see them. For all the bleating by Chief Constables about the absence of no-go areas in the city , the reality was very different. This barren wasteland was no place for a beat copper. The police came here mob-handed or not at all. A raid would involve dozens of officers, in full riot gear, converging on the area at thee in the morning. It would be noisy, dramatic, violent and ultimately ineffective. The Big Man would have already left, together will his inner circle. Too many people involved for secrecy to be maintained. Someone would have passed the word down the line. A good earner.

An hour later, he was back in the flat. Boarded up and derelict like all the others, it was ideal for his purposes. He required little in the way of creature comforts. The bare wooden floors were streaked with blood and the man he’d left here, tied to a radiator with wire, raised his head as the door opened. The man closed his eyes, screwing them tightly shut, at his approach.

‘You told me wrong, Billy.’

The words hung in the fetid air. The naked man groaned, blood still seeping from his mouth past the remaining stumps of broken teeth. He said nothing, but turned his head away.

‘What I need to decide is whether you go it wrong or whether you’re pissing me about. It makes a difference, Billy. You can see that, can’t you?’

The naked man made no reply.

‘I’m asking a question, Billy. Which is it?’ The right hand shot forward and Billy screamed as the knife gouged deeply into his thigh.

‘I told you,’ he gasped, blood streaming from his mouth as he spoke. ‘I saw him. Yesterday.’

‘Not there now, Billy. Assuming he ever was. What to do about it. That’s the next question.’ The blade flashed in the dim light of the room and Billy screamed again. A high keening wail that was far more than an expression of pain.  Acknowledgment  of more agony to come and the inevitability of death were etched across his ruined features.

The knife carved a deep slice across the bound man’s torso, his chest opening to reveal raw flesh and the blood flowed freely; soaking into the already saturated floorboards.

‘What shall I do with you, Billy? Cut you up and leave you for the rats to find? I hear them, in the night. Scuttling around. Whole packs of them. Only us here, Billy. Us and the rats. They’re hungry, Billy.’

Billy moaned, smashing his own head against the radiator in search of oblivion. More blood flowed and he screamed again as his head was clamped under the armpit of his captor. ‘You’ll hear them coming for you, Billy, but you won’t see them,’ the insistent voice whispered in his ear and Billy lost consciousness as the agony finally overwhelmed him. The other man bent forward, cutting away the ligaments that still supported the detached eyeballs and flinging the bleeding objects across the room.

He stood up, wiping his hands on his clothing. He walked into the next room where his possessions were laid out. He stripped off his ruined clothing and discarded it. Naked he washed carefully, pouring the remnants of the bottled water over his head and then drying himself roughly with the towel. He removed a complete set of clothing from the suitcase and prepared to leave. He’d not be returning. This place had served its purpose.

He walked calmly through the other room, not even glancing at the naked man slumped against the radiator as he walked to the door. Billy had served his purpose too.