Tania Carver - The Creeper

But he wasn’t. And that adrenalin was still there, charged up, pawing around inside him like a caged beast, just waiting for an outlet.

It wasn’t long in coming. And, when it did, he could barely believe it.

He was sitting in the car, fidgeting and uncomfortable. At least when Anni was there he had someone to talk to. All he had now was the radio and that was tuned to Radio One, spewing afternoon inanities and songs he was embarrassed to admit he didn’t recognise. He was contemplating turning over to Radio Two but something within himself wouldn’t allow it. It was comfortable. It was set in the past. It had DJs he had grown up with playing songs he had grown up with. To listen willingly would be like acknowledging he would never again embark on a four-day coke and alcohol bender, go straight from clubbing on a Friday night to the football on a Saturday afternoon, pick up a girl in a bar and stay with her for the whole weekend, coming in to boast about his stamina and prowess on a Monday morning.

He sighed. The truth was that part of him, an increasingly large part, didn’t want to do that any more. There was more to him than that. Use his brain again, remind himself why he had gone to university in the first place. That was why he had transferred out of the DS. He was concerned about himself, his future. But another part of him wanted to keep on living like that and damn the consequences. He had successfully managed to keep it controlled for now but he wasn’t sure he could do that indefinitely.

Maybe Radio Two would help, he thought, reaching out to change the channel, hating himself for it at the same time. Some anonymous eighties hit came on. He settled back in his seat.

He was glad he had confided in Anni. He felt he could trust her. And that was something, because for all the hard as nails fun he had had in the DS, there were none of them that he considered his lifelong friends. That all seemed to go when he went. But Anni… yeah. She was a good one.

His thoughts were stopped from wandering any further down that particular avenue because something had caught his eye. And he couldn’t believe it.

A van had pulled up in front of the boat. And not just any old van.

A black Citroën Nemo.

Mickey couldn’t believe his luck. The dormant adrenalin powered up inside him once more. He wanted to open the car door, run over and collar whoever was driving, pull them out, slam them against the bonnet old-school, making sure their head bounced off a couple of times as he did so, then loudly proclaim, ‘You’re nicked, my son.’ See what Anni made of that.

But he didn’t. Instinct kicked in, reluctantly overrode the adrenalin. Watch, he told himself, learn.

He did so. And saw the driver side door open, someone get out. Any hopes of a clean identification were dashed because the driver was wearing green army camo gear, buttoned up to the neck, a black wool watch cap pulled down tight on their head and a pair of big, face-obscuring aviator shades.

‘Bastard.’

The driver came round the side of the van, went to the back doors. Mickey tried to take in what he could. Medium height, male. That was it. Didn’t walk with a limp, have any particular distinguishing features. Nothing.

Then the passenger emerged. Walked round to the back. The van was parked so that the passenger was further away and Mickey’s vision was obscured. And this one was dressed identically to the driver. Army fatigues, boots, wool hat and sunglasses. But that was where the similarity ended.

The passenger was taller, walked more slowly than the driver. And there was something not quite right about the gait. Throwing his left leg out as he walked, a definite limp.

Mickey smiled.

He focused on what he could see of the passenger’s face. His smile widened. The man’s face wasn’t as he had expected it to be. What Mickey could see of it was red and blotchy, smooth – nearly flat – in parts, pitted and cratered in others.

A burns victim.

He watched as the two men opened the back of the van, leaned in, brought something out. They struggled with the object, a heavy bundle wrapped in a rug. He looked closer. The rug was discoloured, darkened in places. Mickey’s heart flipped. He knew what that was.

Blood.

And he knew what was in the rug. It didn’t take a genius to realise it was a body.

He sat back, as far down in his seat as he could, trying desperately not to be noticed. Heart hammering out Motörhead drum riffs, breath in short supply. The two men carried the bundle on to the boat, went below deck. Mickey let out a breath he didn’t know he had been holding.

He watched, waited. Nothing happened.

He picked up the radio, ready to call for back-up, for the armed response team Phil had promised would be there when he wanted it, when there was movement on the boat.

Mickey put the radio down. Watched again.

One of the figures, the driver without the limp, came back up on deck, walked across the gangplank and left the boat. He walked over to the Nero, got behind the wheel, turned over the engine.

Mickey looked between the van and the boat, torn.

The driver revved up the engine.

Another look between the two. Mickey weighed it up. The scarred man had a body inside the boat. But no transport. And whatever he was doing down there, not going anywhere would be top of his list. Whereas the driver of the van was clearly leaving and there might not be another chance to get him.

Mickey’s mind was made up. He waited until the van turned round and headed up the road, counted a few seconds, set off after it.

Once on the road he picked up the radio, gave the call sign.

‘Am in pursuit of a suspect. He’s driving a black Citroën Nemo, registration number…’

He would tell them what was happening in the boat. Get Phil’s armed response team on to it. Whoever this was in the van was his.

He smiled, switched back over to Radio One.

Thrilled to be giving his adrenalin a workout.

‘Ah…’ the Creeper sighed. ‘Alone at last…’ He was, for the first time in a long while, almost happy.

He looked at the bundle in front of him. The rug had been unrolled, its cargo disgorged on to the floor of the boat. Rani. She lay there, unmoving but awake, looking round, her eyes wide.

He crossed to her, knelt down beside her. ‘You awake, beautiful?’

He was giddy with excitement. Here she was. After all this time. Alone together. At last. His heart was hammering with excitement, stomach flipping with expectation. He wanted all his senses to take her in. He looked her over first, his eyes devouring her whole body. Then he closed his eyes, leaned in close, smelled her, fragrance, sweat, everything. Nothing was bad, all was good. All was Rani. He wanted to taste her, too, put his lips on her, his tongue, kiss her, lick her, all over…

There would be time enough for that later. For now he would be content to just start slowly. He reached out his hand, began to stroke her hair. She didn’t pull away or recoil, just lay still, eyes wide, breathing heavily.

He laughed. ‘Nearly awake. Good.’ Another sigh, his breath ragged. ‘Well. Face to face. After all this time, all these years…’ He knelt in closer, his hand stroking her face now, down her cheek. ‘We’ve got… we’ve got… a lot of catching up to do, my darling…’

His hand stopped stroking. He studied her face closely, eyes falling on every feature, memorising it as if he would never see it again, taking her all in once more. Seeing not Rani as she used to be but Rani as she was now. She looked different. That was to be expected, of course; there was no way she would be able to find a perfect match. She would in time, though, once her spirit settled in and began to change things. But even now he could see the similarities, make out what was to come. He touched the features he recognised. Her eyes, yes, he thought, fingers playing over them, and the curve of her cheekbone… and her mouth, her lips… so soft… oh, so soft…