Books Of Blood Vol 3

But Glass glided up behind him soundlessly, and before he could step over the threshold he had thrown something around Maguire's face, a cloth of some kind. It smelt of hospitals, of ether or disinfectant or both. Magure tried to cry out but a fist of cloth was being thrust down his throat. He gagged on it, the vomit-reflex making his system revolt. In response the assassin just tightened his grip.

In the street opposite a girl Maguire knew only as Natalie (Model: seeks interesting position with strict disciplinarian) was watching the struggle in the doorway of the shop with a doped look on her vapid face. She'd seen murder once or twice; she'd seen rape aplenty, and she wasn't about to get involved. Besides, it was late, and the insides of her thighs ached. Casually she turned away down the pink-lit corridor, leaving the violence to take its course. Maguire made a mental note to have the girl's face carved up one of these days. If he survived; which seemed less likely by the moment. The red, blue, red, blue was unfixable now, as his airless brain went colour-blind, and though he seemed to-snatch a grip on his would-be assassin, the hold seemed to evaporate, leaving cloth, empty cloth, ru

Then someone spoke. Not behind him, not the voice of his assassin, but in front. In the street. Norton. It was Norton. He'd returned for some reason, God love him, and he was getting out of his car ten yards down the street, shouting Maguire's name.

The assassin's choke-hold faltered and gravity claimed Maguire. He fell heavily, the world spi

Norton ran towards his boss, fumbling for his gun amongst the bric-a-brac in his pocket. The white-suited assassin was already backing off down the street, unprepared to take on another man. He looked, thought Norton, for all the world like a failed member of the Klu Klux Klan; a hood, a robe, a cloak. Norton dropped to one knee, took a double-handed aim at the man and fired. The result was startling. The figure seemed to balloon up, his body losing its shape, becoming a flapping mass of white cloth, with a face loosely imprinted on it. There was a noise like the snapping of Monday-washed sheets on a line, a sound that was out of place in this grimy back-street. Norton's confusion left him responseless for a moment, and the man-sheet seemed to rise in the air, illusory.

At Norton's feet, Maguire was coming round, groaning. He was trying to speak but having difficulty making himself understood through his bruised larynx and throat. Norton bent closer to him. He smelt of vomit and fear.

'Glass,' he seemed to be saying.

It was enough. Norton nodded, said hush. That was the face, of course, on the sheet. Glass, the imprudent accountant. He'd watched the man's feet fried, watched the whole vicious ritual; not to his taste at all.

Well, well: Ro

Norton looked up, but the wind had lifted the ghost above the rooftops and away.

That had been a bad experience; the first taste of failure. Ro

Police investigations at the mortuary had led round in circles for half a day; and now into the night. Inspector Wall of the Yard had tried every technique he knew. Soft words, hard words, promises, threats, seductions, surprises, even blows. Still Le

How could he put that in his report? No, he wanted something concrete, even if it was a lie.

'Can I have a cigarette?' asked Le

'Hey, Fresco - ' Wall addressed his right-hand man, Al Kincaid. 'I think it's time you searched the lad again.'

Le

'Listen ...' he implored.

'What, Le

'I didn't do it.'

'Of course you did it,' said Wall, picking his nose. 'We just want to know why. Didn't you like the old fucker? Make dirty remarks about your lady-friends, did he? He had a bit of a reputation for that, I understand.'

Al Fresco smirked.

'Was that why you nobbled him?'

'For God's sake,' said Le

'Language,' chided Fresco.

'Shrouds don't fly,' said Wall, with understandable conviction.

'Then where is the shroud, eh?' reasoned Le

'You incinerated it, you ate it, how the fuck should I know?'

'Language,' said Le

The phone rang before Fresco could hit him. He picked it up, spoke and handed it to Wall. Then he hit Le

'Listen,' said Fresco, breathing with lethal proximity to Le

'Fresco.' Wall had covered the receiver as he spoke to the muscle-man.

'Yes, sir.'

'It's Mr Maguire.'

'Mr Maguire?'

'Micky Maguire.'

Fresco nodded.

'He's very upset.'

'Oh yeah? Why's that?'

'He thinks he's been attacked, by the man in the morgue. The pornographer.'

'Glass,' said Le

'Ronald Glass, like the man says,' said Wall, gri

'That's ridiculous,' said Fresco.

'Well I think we ought to do our duty to an upstanding member of the community, don't you? Duck in to the morgue will you, make sure - '

'Make sure?'

That the bastard's still down there - '

'Oh.'

Fresco exited, confused but obedient.

Le

'Don't do that,' he said. 'You can play with yourself as much as you like once we've got you tucked up in a nice, warm cell.'

Le

Fresco was already back from down the hall, a little breathless.

'He's there,' he said, visibly brightened by the simplicity of the task.

'Of course he is,' said Wall.

'Dead as a Dodo,' said Fresco.

'What's a Dodo?' asked Le

Fresco looked blank.

Turn of phrase,' he said testily.

Wall of the Yard was back on the line, talking to Maguire. The man at the other end sounded well spooked; and his reassurances seemed to do little good.

'He's all present and correct, Micky. You must have been mistaken.'

Maguire's fear ran back through the phone line like a mild electric charge.

'I saw him, damn you.'

'Well, he's lying down there with a hole in the middle of his head, Micky. So tell me how can you have seen him?'

'I don't know,' said Maguire.

'Well then.'

'Listen ... if you get the chance, drop by will you? Same arrangement as usual. I could put some nice work your way.'