Accidental Don. Episode eight.

Shepherd wasn't happy. That fucking imbecile apprentice had turned this whole operation into a shambles. He pulled open the door of the camp-site landlord's trusty old Volvo and began to search the interior as Breadman went to begin rifling through the boot, throwing tow rope and tools onto the ground behind him as he did so.

It hadn't taken long to search the vehicle. The time between Spiderman having lost the image and their arrival wasn't sufficient that the dead man could have hidden it very far from here. They shone their torches left and right across the wall.

“There.” Breadman spoke, the beam from his torch highlighting a space close to the ground between a rhododendron bush and a lawnmower. Access to the space where the wheels lived.

The two torturers approached the access, crouching and shining their torches beneath the caravan.

“I see it.” Breadman smiled. “Over there on the far side, see?”

Shepherd saw. A laptop lay there, looking like it had been hurriedly stashed away by the useless wheel on the far side. Breadman wriggled under the caravan, making his way across the cold, moist earth and returning with the computer.

“He'd broken it.” Breadman flicked the webcam modification with a finger.

“Maybe he knew we were coming, was trying to disable the location services?”

It sounded plausible, though why he'd not got into his Volvo and fucked off if he'd known they were coming neither of the landlord's killers could fathom. Still, the man was dead and Stationmaster's laptop was now in their possession. Shepherd glanced at the time on his phone and looked forward to his breakfast.

Life was good.

____________________

He awoke, shivering.

Pedestrians bustled to and fro. The idling engines' of the cars on the gridlocked street and the hiss of air brakes as buses swept by in their own, private lanes creating a confusing cacophony.

It took him a moment to remember where he was. He'd sat down on a bench in a bus shelter and had fallen asleep almost immediately.

The early morning sun shone brightly on the bus shelter and had woken Owen once it had crept across the sky and fallen upon his face. His teeth chattered.

The warmth on his cheeks highlighted the tooth chattering chill he felt and he pulled himself from the seat, craning his neck to turn his face toward that blessed brightness.

He stepped away from the shelter and began to walk, slowly, the warmth bringing with it comfort and a clarity of thought he'd struggled to possess earlier. He passed into a shadow cast by an office block and the chill returned. He shook, suddenly once again sleepy, but then he stepped out from the cold darkness and back into the warming embrace of the sun.

He chose to walk in the sunlight, life was good in the sunlight.

There was a McDonald's, already busy with night workers making their way home and office workers wishing they were too. Although he'd probably begun to smell a little ripe, Owen looked relatively respectable. He'd get away with popping into their toilets for his morning ablutions.

The door was stiff, he couldn't open it more than an inch or two, so he slapped the big, silver plate with the stylised picture of a wheelchair user on it and leant against the glass as servos assisted with the task.

The air inside the restaurant was even colder than the air in the shadows outside, the air conditioning homogenising the atmosphere within. Owen kept his head down and headed for the disabled toilet where he'd be able to lock the door for a few minutes and use hand-wash to clean his body as best he could.

Once locked away in the loo he'd decided it far too cold to remove much of his clothing. He pulled up his sleeve and unwrapped the dressing.

Owen winced and whimpered as the last layer of fabric, stuck to the wound by blood and pus, pulled with it the little triangle of skin. It was difficult to inspect the damage so he held his arm before the mirror to get a better look.

Matter, thick, pungent and oily green-brown in colour, had colonised the wound. Owen used toilet roll to dab away as much as he could before placing more of the soft paper onto the wound and reusing the dressing. He leant close to the mirror as he washed his face, noticing how waxy his skin looked. Then, once he'd evacuated his bowels, he left the establishment and stepped out into the soothing sunshine once more.

____________________

Donald lay motionless as the beams of light swept left and right beneath the caravan. Briefly, one of the beams glanced across his shoulder but those aiming the lights weren't looking for a living dead man lay on a lawn in the dark, their attention was focused on the space beneath the landlord's floor.

Once Shepherd and Breadman had retrieved Stationmaster's laptop and their view of the lawn was obscured by the caravan again Donald retreated quickly, stooping as he dashed through the gate and dropping to the ground with his back against the cold wall. The black sky was in the process of ceasing to be black as the new day's sun approached the other side of the horizon.

“Done?” Mick asked, flicking the little switch on the small gun to cover the red circle that indicated danger.

“Done.”

____________________

Breadman stank of petrol.

The lawnmower had provided a litre or so of the shimmering liquid, tinted red with the oil the mower required to continue to run. A litre would be more than enough to get a decent fire started quickly and easily, but Shepherd wanted more. Shepherd said he wanted the whole camp ablaze, maybe the forest too. “If a job's worth doing, it's worth doing well” he'd said.

The landlord's Volvo had almost a full tank of fuel, so Shepherd had cut a length of hosepipe from a hose that was coiled up and hanging from a bracket above a bib tap. He'd handed Breadman the pipe and a fuel can that had been in the boot of the car.

“Get busy”, he'd said as he'd retreated indoors and turned on the gas supply to the fire and grill, igniting neither.

Breadman had filled the container and left the hose to continue obeying the laws of physics, drawing fuel from the tank and  allowing it to flow onto the patch of gravel that provided a parking area for the Volvo. He'd tasted fuel, failing to remove the pipe from his mouth in time to prevent ingesting a little and he'd spluttered as Shepherd had watched. Shepherd wondered if his apprentice had been ready for this kind of hunt.

The apprentice began splashing fuel from the can over the little shed that stood by the patch of gravel, then further across the wall of the caravan that stood on the next plot. The container empty, he half filled it from the stream that still flowed from the Volvo and plugged the can up with a pristine, cotton handkerchief he'd plucked from his pocket.

“Do you have a light?” Breadman asked, patting his own pockets to demonstrate he didn't have one himself. He approached his Guv'nor who was standing well back and enjoying a cigarette whilst he examined his phone. Shepherd took a final drag as his apprentice approached.

Shepherd was thinking about the future and, in doing so, had hit upon a plan even better than the plan he'd arrived here with. A plan not only to secure the laptop but also to win the next prize. Maybe, even, to put himself on a par with Thieftaker.

“Yes...” He mumbled as he toyed with the phone, “here...”

He spoke as he used his thumb to swipe right on his phone twice, the camera app switching from “photo” to “video” and then further to “slo-mo”. Shepherd touched the red circle at the bottom of the screen, took one final puff of nicotine...

...and gave Breadman a light.

____________________

“Are you okay?” Owen looked up at the face of the speaker.

He'd found a spot on a bench by the river where no shadows fell and had taken a seat. A thousand faces, their eyes aimed at their own feet, passed by without any of them seeing the young man trembling and sweating. But now a pair saw him and the pairs' owner was concerned.

“Bruv, are you all right?” The eyes' owner asked again.

Owen flicked a dry tongue across his dry lips and tried to speak. A word crackled from his throat but shed no light on his condition. Owen's neck ceased it's battle to keep his face turned towards the concerned passer-by and his head fell backwards as his eyes closed. He slipped from the bench onto the floor, shedding enough light on his condition to cause the passer-by to remove his phone from his backpack and dial a three digit number.

____________________

The tatty mini-bus rocked as Shepherd yanked hard on the handbrake, it's ratchet clicking it's teeth as it secured the back wheels. He plucked the phone from the seat beside him and climbed out of the cab.

The sky that had been so black when last he had stood here had now turned purple, the lower edge beginning to further morph into a deep, cold blue.

The caravan site had been difficult to spot earlier. Now it drew the eye as orange flames engulfed every structure and roared skyward. Shepherd began to film the vista.

The landlord's home had already exploded, the gas within providing the catalyst for the eruption. He was sad he'd not got footage of that, it having occurred as he'd begun his ascent back up the mountain. As he rued missing the spectacle he took a packet of cigarettes from the breast pocket of his shirt, drew one out with his lips and replaced the packet. He fumbled his lighter out from his trouser pocket and stood, his thumb resting on the little, metal wheel that would provide a spark when spun, lost in the moment.

The noise of the second explosion arrived at Shepherd's ears a second or two after the light from the blast. It came from the caravan at the far end of the site, the only other residence with a gas canister residing beneath. The first explosion brought a smile, the second, when the Land Rover with the quarter tank of petrol finally succumbed to the intense heat, gave him an erection. He laughed.

“Give us a cig, mate.” Shepherd half heard the words as he felt the fingers drawing the packet from his pocket. Eyes wide, he turned his head toward the friendly, grinning face of the man now stood beside him. The fear Shepherd's face presented brought forth a greater grin in return, and this greater grin transformed the fear into anger. The very epitome of a vicious circle.

There was a click and the fear returned as the vicar found himself staring down the short barrel of a Walther PPK.

“Shush” Donald urged, the index finger of the hand in which he didn't hold a pistol placed on his lips, “Sleepy time.”

The pain arrived a split second before the sound of the wheel brace striking his head at the point where skull met spinal column reached his ears and, for Shepherd, the purple sky faded to blackness again.

This time the blackness held no stars.

____________________

He was travelling in a submarine, banks of important looking electronics blinked lights and bleeped bleeps all around him.

Then he was a bird, soaring amongst the clouds in a bright blue sky.

He was no longer feeling cold, there was a white and blue blanket wrapped around him, but still he shook.

A series of clattering clangs interrupted his flight. Now he was in a rocket, he could feel the g-force building as he accelerated skywards within the metal container. The rocket docked with another craft and he floated on his back through the airlock. Then it was dark and he was in bed.

Two women, hair as dark as oil and dressed in white, flanked his bed. The women were more beautiful than any creatures he'd ever seen or could ever have imagined. Immediately, he loved these ladies.

They tucked him in, smiles on their lips. He wanted to ask them a question but could think of none.

“It's all right.” The lady in white on his left whispered as her colleague stroked his forehead, “sleep.”

Owen slept.

____________________

Shepherd awoke. It was cold.

He turned his head left and right. Thick, black smoke from the burning caravans mushroomed up from behind the trees to his right. He looked down.

A tow rope that had previously been in the boot of a now charred Volvo coiled around his torso securing him to a tree in a sitting position, leaving his arms free. He tugged at the bonds, looking for a knot to unfasten. The rope had two knots, both of them out of sight and reach behind him.

“Morning, sleepy head.” Mick smiled as he spoke, stepping into view from behind the tree to which Shepherd was bound. Shepherd didn't reply as Mick took a seat on a fallen tree trunk a couple of metres in front of him.

“Not very talkative, Vic. You not a 'morning person' then?”

“Who the fuck are you?”

“Me? I'm no one. Quite literally. Now, to the matter in hand. Unlock that.” Mick tossed the iPhone onto Shepherd's lap. Shepherd took the phone.

“Fuck you.” He snarled as he drew back an arm and prepared to fling the phone as far as he could.

“Oh I don't think so.” Said Donald as he plucked the device from the killer's fingers, stepping into view from behind the tree to which Shepherd was secured and taking a seat beside the old soldier on the horizontal tree trunk.

“Who the fuck do you two think you are? Have you any fucking idea...”

Bark and burnt timber exploded a few inches above his head as the bullet Mick fired from the gun he'd taken from the front seat of the mini-bus struck. Shepherd soiled himself.

“You missed.” Donald said, flicking the little switch on his own gun.

He'd missed on purpose, Shepherd thought. A warning shot. This pair of jokers were nothing to be worried about, they were trying to intimidate him. Fuck them.

The pain arrived before the sound of the shot. The bone within his shoulder exploded in a similar fashion to the timber that Mick's bullet had devastated.

“What the fuck? I said keep the gun high, aim at the fucking tree.” Mick looked at his friend, confused. His friend shrugged.

“Michael, it's the first time I've ever fired a gun, I missed, my bad. He's not fucking dead though, no harm done.” Donald gestured toward the sobbing, but very much alive, killer.

“How many fucking times, Frank?” He shook his head and frowned, “My name is MICK.”

____________________

The cleaner hadn't expected to see anyone in the offices at this time of the morning, so she'd not knocked.

“Oh God Jesus!” She'd shrieked when she'd seen him.

He'd apologised for scaring her and explained he'd pulled an all-nighter.

“No, it's fine” He'd smiled as he answered the question that followed the blasphemy. It was a lie, the bin she'd offered to empty was overflowing, but he couldn't risk her approaching the desk at which he sat facing the door.

The cleaner closed the door. Spiderman waited until he heard her turn on the vacuum cleaner then, after turning the volume down to an almost imperceptible level, clicked play on the video that had been paused on the monitor before him. He watched as the man, his opposite number in the Scottish team, writhed on the floor engulfed in flame. All around him, a hellish scene as the flames in which he was engulfed ignited the fuel that lay around in such abundance. He leant toward the screen, his face contorted as if in rage, then gasped and growled as he screwed shut his eyes.

Finally, he ejaculated.

____________________

Mick lit a cigarette and passed it to Donald.

The one known as Shepherd was a strong one. They'd threatened him and shot him and still he steadfastly refused to comply. Donald took a lungful of smoke and blew on the red embers of the cigarette's business end.

“Frank...” Mick spoke as Shepherd screwed shut his eyes and awaited the sizzling pleasure of a cigarette burn.

“I'm busy.” The flesh by Shepherd's nose crackled as the cigarette was pressed against it. Shepherd screamed.

“Finished?” Mick asked as the bound man remained silent but for a wheezing whimper.

“What is it?”

“It's an iPhone, Frank,” He stood and walked over to where Shepherd sat, crouching beside him and taking the hand that dangled from the shattered shoulder. He pressed the man's thumb against the button and the phone sprang into life, revealing the home screen.

“Biometrics. Isn't technology marvellous?”

Mick had expected to find phone numbers for the other competitors, maybe some emails, some little clue that, with a little digging and some effort, would yield their location. He smiled.

“Anything?” Donald asked.

“Oh yes, plenty.” Mick began investigating Spiderman's app as Donald smoked.

“Wht are you going to do with me?” Shepherd asked, his voice shaking though he tried to sound strong, “Are you going to kill me?”

“Of course not.” Donald flicked his cigarette away and began fumbling through the pocket of the long, leather jacket he wore.

Shepherd was relieved.

“Ready?” Donald asked as he flicked away his cigarette and began walking toward the minibus.

“Ready.” Mick replied, still staring at the screen as he stood, “Oh, hang on...”

“What?”

“I can't disable the biometrics without the passcode.”

“English, please?”

“We need the passcode.”

“Why? It's unlocked?”

“Yes, for now, but without the code I can't add my own thumb print. Once the screen goes to sleep we won't get back in.”

Donald looked at the killer.

“Easy way?” He asked Shepherd.

“Fuck you, you wee prick.” Shepherd spat the words.

“I'm so glad you said that. If something's too easy it's never any fun.” Donald spoke, smiling as he approached.

____________________

Owen's mouth felt full of cotton wool. He tried to sit up but could do no more than raise his head an inch or two off the plump pillow before falling back, exhausted.

His was tucked tightly into a bed. Sheets and blankets rather than a duvet, the smell of antiseptic, the sound of echoing footsteps and the distant murmur of voices. He was suddenly very scared indeed.

“Don't worry, love.” The soothing voice came from his left. He turned his head, smiling.

The lady that was currently reassuring him wasn't either of the ladies that had helped him after his journey to the space station. This lady was dressed in blue. Her hair, though dark, wasn't the shimmering blackness of the ladies he'd seen. He watched as the nurse changed the bag that hung from a chrome stand by his bed before popping a thermometer in his ear.

“Much better, love. Try and get some sleep.”

Owen tried to speak but found he couldn't part his lips to utter any of the questions he had. He stared at the ceiling where a cobweb dangled from an imperfection on the surface. Dust had collected on the gently wafting spider's trap.

Owen felt as if he were falling upwards, very slowly, until he could see nothing but the dusty web, and slept.

____________________

“To be fair, you didn't give him the option.” Mick spoke as he put the phone on the seat beside him.

“Well, all's well that ends well.” Donald didn't look at Mick as he spoke, preferring instead to concentrate on the steep, stony track he was steering the old bus down. He ran an index finger around the stiff dog-collar he now wore.

It hadn't been easy, so it'd been fun. For Donald.

“Which way?” He asked as they neared the t-junction at the end of the track.

Mick picked the phone up again. The screen displayed the keypad and urged “Touch ID or Enter Passcode”. Mick unlocked the phone.

“Turn right here, then stick on this road until we see the signs for the motorway.”

Mick opened Spiderman's app on the phone and selected “Upload”, then selected the footage he'd just filmed from the phone's memory. A small, broken circle appeared in the centre of the screen, spinning as the sparse Trossachs signal struggled to upload the footage. It wasn't a huge file, but the weak signal at the sender's end meant that it had taken several minutes to arrive on the server in the office where the murderer had recently masturbated.

The phone pinged a ping to let him know the upload was complete and Mick smiled.

They'd joined the game.

____________________

The blood had ceased to flow, though the pain prevailed.

The track was seldom used, at least by people. Insects buzzed around him, birds watched him from the branches of the trees that towered above and small mammals, attracted by the scent of blood from his wounds, came to investigate.

He sat all day, drifting in and out of consciousness. Occasionally, he would struggle against his bonds. Sometimes he would shout for help, though by mid-afternoon his dry throat was as raw and sore as his shoulder and wrist and he fell mainly silent.

It was an unusually warm day and, for a good portion of the time, the sun glared at him as it cooked his exposed flesh. Dehydration caused his head to feel as if it were splitting open and his lower lip burst like a sausage in a pan. Then came the evening.

It was cool, the fresh breeze made it's way through the forest around him and caused him to shiver uncontrollably.

He dozed off, awakening when the moon had become the principal source of light. Different insects buzzed around him now, thousands of them swarming. The bats that had replaced the birds swooped through the branches above, occasionally darting down low and feasting on these newer, different insects. Shepherd was finding it hard to focus on his thoughts. He'd long since ceased his attempts to loosen his bonds, he couldn't even move his arms now and his head lolled forward, unsupported in any real sense by his neck.

The fox could sense the scent of the murderer's wounds in the air all around him. He sniffed, whiskers twitching, as he pinpointed the location.

A fox is no match for a grown man, even a man bound to a tree would present too fearsome a foe for a fox to tackle. A man bound to a tree with a devastated shoulder still had an arm and two legs to flail in an effort to defend himself.

A fox is, however, more than a match for a man that meets all of these criteria whilst also being dangerously dehydrated and with an infection beginning to rack his body. The bloody stump at the end of the arm with no bullet wound further tipped the scales in the carnivore's favour.

Whatever energy the already dying Shepherd still possessed was suddenly spent on screams and sobs as the snarling, slavering fox attacked.

____________________

Mick was right, it would have been easier to cut off just the thumb. The blunt knife he'd used to hack away at the gristle, sinew, cartilage and bone of Shepherd's wrist had made a difficult job even more difficult. But Donald's latest character didn't do easy, which was why he'd placed a hand over the vicar's mouth when he'd started trying to give him the passcode he sought.

Donald's latest character did fun.

Episode nine