Steven Dunne - The Disciple

‘Stephen Ingham.’

‘Yeah. He told ’em to hold me down. The other two of ’em did. Then he did this.’ His eyes began to water as he gestured at his cheek and he put his hands to his face. ‘I screamed…’

‘Was Jason Wallis holding you down?’

‘No, he were keeping lookout, like I said. I think he were embarrassed, he couldn’t look at me…’

‘Why was he embarrassed?’ asked Brook.

‘’Cos he knew me. I used to go round with his sister at the primary.’

‘His sister Kylie?’

‘S’right.’

‘Go on.’

‘Well, then that bloke shouted for them to stop…’

‘Bloke?’ said Brook and Grant in unison.

‘Yeah, that teacher.’

‘What teacher?’

‘I didn’t recognise him at first, all dressed in black like that.’

‘You knew him?’ said Brook.

‘Yeah, I used to go to primary like I said. He were a teacher there. I can’t remember his name ’cos I never had him.’

‘John Ottoman,’ said Brook softly.

‘That’s it. Mr Ottoman. If it hadn’t been for him…’

Jason Wallis woke early the next morning from a deep sleep. He sat up with a controlled sigh and yawned. He flicked on his mobile: just gone seven. He sprang out of bed and dressed in his new tracksuit and running shoes before tiptoeing downstairs. For the second night in a row, he had no need to shift his chest of drawers from behind his door.

He downed a glass of orange juice and pulled on a woollen hat, also new, before leaving the house. He broke into a slight jog as he headed down towards the bridges, taking the same route he had when fleeing The Reaper the day after his release. This was his second early morning and his lungs weren’t quite as bad as yesterday, though he still required frequent stops. His head felt clear after three nights without booze and tobacco.

When he reached the towpath he actually broke into a sprint for about fifty yards, finally giving in to the stabbing pains and stopping to hack up the noxious sludge lining his throat and lungs. When his pulse returned to normal he set off again, this time managing a longer stint that took him all the way to the weir, near which he’d once cowered in terror from The Reaper.

Jason smiled. The old me. He set off again, following the same path to Elvaston Castle that he had on that fateful night of terror, the night he’d finally had to face his demons, the night he’d begged The Reaper for his life, sobbing like a girl. He eased to a halt at the very spot his bowels and bladder had opened, the place where the seed of the new man had been planted. He looked around in the pale dawn light enjoying the blood pumping through his heart. He was on holy ground. He’d been resurrected here, had seen the light or heard the voice; however you put it. He was alive, his friends and family were dead. He was a survivor. He must be doing something right.

No more dreams. No more weakness. The weak died. To be a victim was to live in fear of the death that sought you out. Cowards die many times. Jason Wallis was no coward. He’d faced The Reaper time and time again and still he was here. If The Reaper couldn’t kill him, who could? He smiled and set off jogging back to Borrowash.

‘I’m ready.’

Drexler began to doze. The heating in the car was cranked up to combat the chill of sub-zero temperatures and, despite being still light, he was in no shape to resist the sedative effect. His notebook slipped from his lap and his head dropped down onto his shoulder. Soon he was snoring.

He woke up some twenty minutes later feeling refreshed. Light snow had built up on his windshield and he moved the wiper switch to clear his vision. Sorenson’s black eyes were burning into him.

Drexler stiffened, his feet kicking the fast-food cartons strewn across the floor of the car. He cursed himself for keeping his firearm in the trunk.

Sorenson grinned and his breath steamed as he mouthed something. He walked through the bank of slush to the driver’s side window. Drexler opened his window no more than a crack.

‘That is you, Special Agent. Are you lost?’ He grinned confidently at Drexler, who didn’t return his smile.

‘Just pulled over for a nap, sir. I was on my way to our satellite office.’

Sorenson’s grin remained. ‘I was just walking around the grounds and I saw you.’

‘Walking in this weather with a bad chest?’

Sorenson smiled coldly. ‘My chest’s fine. And, coming from England, this weather is normal. It’s the heat that does for me.’ Sorenson seemed to weigh his next utterance. ‘Would you care to join me? I’ve got another fifteen minutes to walk then I’ll be having a hot drink.’

Drexler nearly laughed. He was about to dismiss the invitation when he realised it was an opportunity he couldn’t pass up. ‘Sure, why not?’

Sorenson nodded, pleased, then jogged arthritically back to the wet highway to wait for Drexler to lock up his car.

After the two men passed through, the gates swung noiselessly together. Drexler looked round as they closed and Sorenson pulled a remote gleefully from his pocket. ‘You Americans. Considering the privations you suffered creating this country, it amazes me that you can’t open or close your own gates or garage doors. Dangerous to have things so easy, don’t you think? This way.’

They set off away from the house, following the boundary wall. They walked in silence for five minutes, though not, it seemed to Drexler, as a result of any detectable awkwardness.

‘How’s your case faring?’ Sorenson finally asked.

Drexler smiled. ‘I’m not at liberty to talk about ongoing investigations.’

‘Ongoing? So you still seek the killer of Caleb and Billy Ashwell? Why?’

‘Why what?’

‘Why do you seek the killer of two people who would never have been allowed to see decent society ever again? Assuming they escaped the death penalty.’

Drexler didn’t answer for a few moments. Finally he said, ‘The man who calls at every gas station on a highway looking for his victims has to be a cold calculating killer. No matter what happened to the Baileys and those other poor families, the man who led Billy Ashwell to the end of a rope couldn’t possibly have known he was involved in his father’s crimes. But he was prepared to execute him anyway.’

Sorenson laughed then his tone became serious, almost accusing. ‘But he was involved in the crimes.’ Drexler raised an eyebrow. Sorenson smiled now. ‘So I gather from the newspapers.’

They continued walking in silence for a few minutes before Sorenson said, ‘Do you ever dream, Mike?’

Drexler looked across at him. ‘Sometimes.’

‘An American dream? A dream of betterment?’

‘What’s your point?’

‘In Europe our dreams are different. Our governments don’t promise us happiness. But the American Dream is about being so much better than you are — as though that would make you happy. A pity then this country cannot grasp greatness, Mike. It’s there, right in front of you but always out of reach.’

‘What are you talking about, Professor?’

‘You. The FBI, the government, the ruling elite and all you represent.’

Drexler paused, trying to divine Sorenson’s meaning, without success. ‘Which is what?’

‘The enforcement of laws that, for all their high-sounding rhetoric, keep the uneasy peace in one of the most vengeful nations on the planet. You know, this country imprisons children who accidentally shoot other children with guns legally kept in the home, by “responsible” adults. Those adults are protected by the same constitution that allows children to be exposed to violent films and games that glorify these weapons. When children become fixated by these guns and accidents inevitably happen, everyone throws up their hands in horror and astonishment.