Nailbiters Page 3

  Trust…

  Can’t you see? Lomax takes another look at the man in front of him, the curly hair – no, it’s straight… Straight hair!

  ‘I can’t let you kill another one. Not another innocent man. Not now I’ve finally found you after all these years.’

  Lomax almost laughs out loud at that one. The hunter being hunted himself, and by his ex-partner.

  Not like the rest. Not like the rest… All these years, all these years… The words echo in his mind, just as they have in the abandoned warehouse. He blinks, and the man’s face changes – he sees face after face, in fact. All the people he’s murdered. Lomax shakes his head. No, they were all Carter, using pseudonyms.

  ‘Put the knife down, Johnny,’ says Temple, coming closer.

  ‘I… No, I’m not going to do that,’ Lomax tells him, then sees what Temple has in his hand. It’s not a dart gun, this one: it’s real. It’ll hurt. But can he kill his old partner, kill his friend?

  Takes a killer to catch a—

  ‘I said drop it, John.’ There’s an edge to Temple’s voice, suggesting he’s not going to ask twice.

  Lomax makes his move, rushing him. There’s a bang and he angles himself sideways. Whadya know, I can dodge bullets after all, he thinks. He can do anything in fact, powered by grief like his. Can take on an eighteen stone ex-Marine, for example, by going for his weak spot – his bum knee – kicking down hard on that and knocking the pistol from his grasp at the same time. Before he knows it, Lomax has plunged the knife he’s holding into Temple, forcing it upwards. Temple splutters, warm blood and spittle peppering Lomax’s face. He holds his former partner, cradles him as he falls to the floor. He’s so heavy Lomax can hardly manage.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he whispers, though he doesn’t know if Temple can hear his voice. ‘But I have to finish this. For Tracey.’

  Once Temple is dead, Lomax returns to the table. To the man he’d once known as Carter. ‘Now, this is just routine. A minor procedure. You’ll be on your feet in no time,’ Lomax informs him. ‘Unless there are…complications, of course. But I’ll do everything I can.’ He lets the words sink in, savouring the terrified look on the man’s face, in his eyes, the incomprehensible mumbling.

  ‘Trust me,’ Lomax says, then gets to work.

  * * *

  There he is, Lomax’s quarry.

  The man chats, flirts with members of staff; hasn’t the faintest idea what’s waiting for him. Lomax grunts – he’ll wipe that look of smug satisfaction off the prick’s face.

  One way or another, that bastard will come to grief.

  Check-out

  Bip

  Milk – two pints: 75p

  Bip

  Sunflower spread: £1.60

  Bip

  Tea bags: £2.50

  The items passed before her eyes, one after the other, like a miniature carnival procession, her hands waving them over the scanner in an automatic, obligatory way.

  ‘Would you hurry up for Christ’s sake? My car’s on a meter,’ snapped the red-faced man on the other side of the till. His words meant nothing to her. She continued on at her leisurely pace until, finally, the last provision had been registered. Only then did she acknowledge his presence and read out the price to him. He paid, hastily pulling out the notes, the coins, and casting them in front of her. The receipt started printing out with the name of the store at the top, followed by the date, and just below that: ‘Thank you for your custom. You were served today by Janet.’

  ‘If I get a bloody ticket, I’m reporting you!’ It was an idle threat. She wasn’t worth reporting. He’d forget all about her as soon as he left the supermarket. Janet had that kind of effect on people.

  She watched him stuffing his groceries into the flimsy plastic bags provided, then he scuttled away. At least he hadn’t bought any baked beans. If she saw another tin…

  No more customers were waiting at the ‘ten items or less’ aisle. She could relax for a minute or two.

  Who would have thought she’d come to this? Check-out girl pricing up goods for ungrateful, unsatisfied, uncaring people. Actually, her parents thought she’d come to this. They told her she’d wind up in a dead-end job working with dead-end people, and they’d been right all along. Much to her regret.

  She hadn’t always been miserable here, though. At one time she’d relished the prospect of visiting the big, bright store: a glowing treasure trove full of every kind of product imaginable. Janet recalled from her childhood the precious trips with her mother which might end in a treat at the check-out if she’d been good that week. Worked hard enough. The choice was staggering. Rows of chocolate bars, sweets in silver wrappers, bubbly… She could remember thinking that this was truly a paradise beyond compare.

  But then, in the eyes of an eight-year-old most aspects of life appear wondrous. Most aspects. Not all. Not by any means.

  Ten years of working here had soon changed her mind about the place. Oh, she could still help herself to treats, and free ones at that – just like when she was a kid. The supermarket factored in certain inevitable losses. But it wasn’t the same. Janet couldn’t bring back those pre-pubescent days no matter how hard she tried.

  Janet’s parents had produced her quite late in life. Very late in her father’s case as he was pushing fifty at the time, with her mother being a much sprightlier forty one. They never told her outright that she was an accident, but they never really had to. It didn’t take much working out. After all those years of going without children, Janet was the last thing they’d anticipated…or wanted. Of course, in this life things tend to be thrust upon you when you least expect them.

  Janet’s mother was forever telling her how difficult the birth had been, how her daughter was so very lucky to be alive at all after the trouble she’d gone through. Eleven hours in labour. But, unfortunately, despite her mum’s protests, Janet didn’t feel particularly lucky.

  In fact there were times in her life when she’d felt like the unluckiest person alive.

  Janet peered at her reflection in the black, glass-topped scanner. Trapped inside was the face of a small, podgy, dark-haired woman (too many treats for you, Janet!) with a sad, dejected expression. The dowdy brown uniform she was made to wear did little to combat her plain image, made, as it was, out of the most hideous starchy material which pulled tight over hips and under arms as she sat at her post.

  There was a clear plastic panel on her right, supposedly to separate her till from the aisle next to hers – except she was on the very end one as usual and there was no neighbouring check-out on that side, just a white wall which ran around the corner to the wines and spirits section.

  To her left was the conveyor belt, her constant companion for a decade now. She knew the way it moved when she pressed the pedal on the floor (that was exciting when she’d first had a go – a bit like driving, and the closest she’d ever get to the real thing); the way it would stop and start sometimes when it hadn’t been used for a while; and the gentle humming noise it made when it was in motion, sending vibrations up the side of her leg that tingled in a funny sort of way.

  Below her, under the counter, was a shelf with her bag on it. Inside were some sandwiches, a few bars of chocolate – free treats! – a coke and…something else. She wasn’t supposed to bring the bag out here with her, but Janet couldn’t risk leaving it in the staff room because someone was bound to look inside. They wouldn’t care if it belonged to her. Janet broke off a piece of chocolate and slipped it into her mouth. She would almost certainly be in trouble if they knew what she was really up to.

  Ah, but it was so nice when there were no customers. No work to do.

  Ever since she could remember, her life had been one long trail of tedious tasks to perform. Once she was old enough to stand up straight and walk, her parents had given her chores to do. Nothing wrong with that, it builds character, gives you a taste of what the real world is like. All kids have to pull their weight.

  The only problem was
that the ‘little’ jobs increased in proportion to her age, and that of her parents, naturally. By the time she was ten, Janet was cooking, cleaning and washing, while her mum and dad relaxed on the couch watching TV. And it all had to be done just right or there would be hell to pay. Discipline was the key word. After all, her father had been a veteran military man.

  Janet would never forget his reaction whenever she did something wrong.

  ‘You’re for it now!’ he’d shout, the bark of a sergeant major. And if she happened to start crying, that just made matters worse. ‘Stop your blubbering, lady, and bite the bullet like a good soldier should!’

  Yes, but she could not tell anyone about the situation. They had made that painfully clear. Drilled it into her times many, with deeds as well as words. If she did, then the men in blue uniforms would come and take her away to live in a cold, dark place. A cellar with lots of other naughty little children. There she would stay, wishing she hadn’t said anything at all, wishing she could go back to her cosy life at home. But by then it would be too late.

  She still believed there was such a place even now, though reason told her that the government, or whoever was in charge, would never allow such a business to go on. Would never stand by and watch kids, let alone twenty-six-year-olds, being carted off to a dungeon somewhere to rot for the rest of eternity. Yet she’d accepted what her parents had said without question. If she was bad in any way she would go directly to the dark place. That went for more than just exposing their slave labour schemes.

  Janet chewed silently away on the chocolate, staring out into space.

  If only…if only…

  Believe it or not Janet had been quite a good pupil at school, despite the fact that she sometimes dozed off at the back of the class – blame her busy lifestyle. Needless to say this led to the other kids giving her the cruel nickname of ‘Dopey’. It was relatively easy to concentrate on schoolwork when you had no friends, and the fact that she was never released out at night only added to the stigma.

  Janet took quite a shine to science and always looked forward to the lessons. Mr Parks had been the teacher and she secretly idolised his chiselled good looks. The kind of man who could sweep a girl off her feet, just like they always did in those pink romance novels her mother read… she sneaked a look at these every chance she got. Some of the passages didn’t make any sense to her – ‘Ralph cupped her swelling bosom and she was lost in rapture…’ – but she understood the sentiment and remembered feeling quite warm after reading certain scenes.

  Janet had also enjoyed English, where she could express herself through her writing, although most of her stories were dismissed as being nothing more than flights of fancy. And she’d coped well with cookery lessons; hardly surprising really, the amount of hours she’d already spent in her own kitchen (mess hall?) at home.

  If only these talents had been encouraged it might have been quite a different story. But all her parents could do was put her down.

  ‘You’ll never amount to anything, lady. You’re a nobody so you might as well get used to the idea,’ her brutish father was known to remark.

  He was right. She never did.

  The older her parents became, the more looking after they required. Pass me this! Fetch me that! Her father was especially good at dishing out the orders; he’d had a lot of practice. From the moment she set foot through the door at 4:15 to the minute she went to bed, which varied depending on how much work she had to get through, Janet was constantly at their beck and call. It was almost as though she was the parent – and a single parent at that – looking after two oversized babies. Just who were the lucky ones in that household, exactly?

  But nothing was ever good enough. She could never work hard – or long – enough to please them. Gone were the days when her mother could be bothered to do the shopping. Now it was her turn to go to the supermarket alone. She had to sort out her own treats.

  When the time came for Janet to leave school, they’d forced her into work so they wouldn’t have to squander their savings on stupid things like food or taxes. So Janet didn’t get the chance to do A-Levels or go to university. They couldn’t risk her moving away. Couldn’t bear to lose their little soldier.

  Ironically, she’d spotted the vacancy while she was in the store one week. It seemed like the kind of job she might actually enjoy, here in her fantastical haven away from the world.

  And father would so love to see her in uniform.

  Janet glanced sideways at the girl on the check-out two rows down. It may have been almost 1 o’clock on a Saturday afternoon, but there were only a handful of staff on – measured out over eight tills. It was done either to cut costs or annoy the customers, she didn’t know which. This ‘colleague’ was maybe six or seven years her junior, though Janet didn’t know for sure because they’d never spoken. No one ever really spoke to Janet. The object of her gaze was blonde with green eyes, and she was thin – supermodel thin. The uniform didn’t look dowdy on her; No sir, SIR! Nobody was ever in a rush when they went through her till. Indeed, men would lean on the counter, ogling her cleavage in that obvious way some do, for what seemed like hours. One was there right now. She knew what he was thinking: Stuff the meter, this is more important. The sight made Janet feel sick.

  Some people have it so easy, she said to herself. In no time that goddess would be promoted, after she’d batted her eyelids at enough superiors. Within five years she’d probably be running her own store.

  Not like Janet.

  Janet was on the check-out.

  Another customer sauntered up to her till, a laid-back youth with a basket in one hand and his jacket in the other. He slammed down the wire holdall and started unloading his selection.

  In her mind she heard the words, Please don’t let it be beans. Not yet. Over and over like a train on the tracks, heading for an inevitable collision.

  Bip

  Loaf of white bread: £1.45

  Bip

  Coffee: £3.00

  Bip

  Instant mash potatoes: £1.25

  He looked at her as she fed the food through. Janet found herself looking back. He had a mischievous grin on his face. The boy reminded her a bit of Mark. Her true love, Mark.

  She’d met him here – where else? – when he came to work for a few months after finishing college. Only temporary, mind, but that’s what they all think in the beginning. At first he’d been just like the rest and they hadn’t progressed past a simple nod as she walked past his shelf displays. But he made her feel funny like the words in that book, or when Mr Parks used to stroll past her in class, usually to answer someone else’s question. Never hers.

  Mark was still working at the store come Christmas time and on the night of the annual party, the first one Janet had ever attended, after telling her folks she was on overtime, something remarkable happened. She’d been inadvertently standing under the mistletoe, on her own…when Mark had kissed her. God, he had actually kissed her!

  Granted, he’d had a fair amount to drink, but that didn’t make any difference. His feelings were clear and Janet had willingly accompanied him home – the dreaded thought of returning to her parents spurring her on.

  She and Mark had…done things together. Janet’s first time, her first real time with a man, was a quick, even mildly painful, experience. She certainly hadn’t been lost in rapture. Yet she felt that Mark had been pleased. And afterwards he had fallen asleep while she went round and tidied up his flat. It wasn’t a chore when you loved someone, was it?

  Without a doubt that had been the best night of her life. Janet felt truly special, truly lucky. At last she had found someone and they had found her. She would move out to live with Mark, escaping her mother and father, and they’d spend the rest of their days together in blissful harmony. She had it all planned out.

  The next morning she did Mark’s washing, then cooked him a big breakfast of bacon and eggs. But before she could say a word to him about her hopes for the future, he�
�d coldly informed her that the previous night had been a terrible mistake and it would probably be better for all concerned if they just remained friends. By that he meant never speak to each other again.

  Had it been something she’d said or done? Janet had tried to please him, make him happy. Obviously it hadn’t been enough. It was never enough.

  ‘You’ll never amount to anything, Dopey…YOU’RE A NOBODY!’

  So that was that. Her parents had been none too pleased about her staying out overnight – in fact they’d been downright furious. But even after all their threats, Janet had told them nothing. They would only have used it against her. Laughed at her for daring to dream.

  Mark had started seeing other girls from the supermarket, one of them being the blonde from two doors down, without a moment’s thought for her feelings. For how he’d torn her apart. Used her. And Janet went back to being invisible again.

  Bip

  Pork pies: £2.50

  Bip

  Sugar: £1.05

  The youth who reminded her of Mark was still smiling as she passed more items over the scanner. That made five. I hope he hasn’t got more than five left in his basket, she thought, because that’s against the rules. Ten items or less, that’s what it said above her station.

  But had he bought any beans?

  Lord, he looked so much like Mark…

  He couldn’t be Mark. She knew that. He’d moved on, hadn’t he?

  Bip

  Cereal: £1.60.

  Bip

  Oranges: £1.78

  Bip

  TV guide: 58p

  Was there any wonder she got so despondent sometimes? So fed up with the way the world had treated her that she thought about how she could set things straight?

  What she had done had been a bad thing, she understood that. How she’d followed Mark all those times without him knowing it. Breaking into his flat while he was out and…

  Or maybe she’d imagined the whole thing.

  Janet sometimes thought perhaps Mark had never really existed at all. That she’d made him up because no one would look at her twice, and whenever they did they just looked right through her as if she were…a ghost. Was he a character from one of those novels she’d dreamt about so many times?