Hot Revenge Box Set 2

The car drives into the night, taillights, glowing gold through the exhaust. Ross stands silently by.

“Time for me to go too.”

“Good luck, James. I’ll be listening.” He offers his hand and I shake.

Then, bag in hand, I set off down the dark streets.

*****

Michael

The night is icy, the ground slick with frost and a breeze, slight though it is, bites at fingers and ears, even through the gloves and the woollen caps both Klempner and I are wearing.

Slipping from one shadow to another, we skirt the luridly lit front entrance of Club Electric, moving around the side.

“Don’t slip on the ice,” mutters Klempner. “You’d end up in the canal.”

The water, black and unwelcoming, ripples sluggishly, assorted unsavoury-looking objects bobbing at the surface.

“No, thanks… How are you planning on getting inside? I’m assuming you weren’t planning on the front door.”

“No. He probably has the back covered too.”

“Fire escape?”

Klempner shrugs, noncommittally. “Maybe.”

“So, what then?”

He brandishes the wooden carrycase he’s been toting since he first arrived with his armoury.

“And that is…?”

He kneels, unclipping the case. It opens into two halves, lying flat, to reveal inside what looks like a gun, sort of, and various components, nested into hollows in packing foam.

“A harpoon gun? And you plan to use that how exactly? I know James talked about hunting whales. Not that I wouldn’t be happy to see Finchby with one of those through his chest, but…”

“It’s a line thrower.” Klempner raises eyes to high above.

There, above what would once have been loading access for, what was then, a warehouse, a mix of silhouettes and dull glints mark the rusted remains of ancient winch and pulley systems jutting from the wall.

Klempner strolls to and fro, apparently measuring height or angle by eye. “What are you like at climbing? Ever done any?”

“Klempner, that’s got to be, sixty… seventy feet…”

“Yes. Have you done any climbing?”

“A bit of rock-climbing when I was a teenager and of course some rope work in the gym. But nothing like…” I let my eyes slide upward: a solid wall of smoothly constructed brickwork, damp in the night air, slick in the winter freeze. “… nothing like that.”

“If you can climb a rope in a gym, you can do this. It’s just a longer stretch.” He cranes his neck, looking up. “Which of those looks the most secure, would you say?”

“You have got to be kidding. Trust our weight to one of those? They’re decades old. There can’t be more than rust and hope holding them together.”

“You want to get inside or not? We can’t use the entrances. There’s no windows at all for the first two stories and the ones above that are barred. Oh, and for the avoidance of doubt, we’ll be trusting my weight to it, not yours.”

“Your weight? Why yours?”

“You're heavier than me, by quite a bit. I'll go up first, get the rope anchored to whatever else I can find up there. Then you can follow.”

“Klempner, that’s just not…”

“Got any better ideas?”

“Since you ask, no.”

“Well then.”

“What’s your idea from there? Hoping there’s access from the roof?”

He shrugs. “There usually is for these places. Services shafts, ventilation… Whatever. And if there isn’t any ready-made, we might make an access. Through the roof tiles perhaps.”

He looks up again, sucking at his teeth. “If we’re pushed, I suppose we could tackle the bars on those upper windows, but I don’t much like the idea of dangling sixty feet up for the length of time that would take. Even in the dark, we’d be too visible if anyone came round.”

He extracts the ‘gun’ from the packing, assembling parts. It could be a shotgun except for the unusually short barrel and strapped below the barrel, a canister, loaded with coiled cord.

to one end… He glances up.

in some fascination. “You’ve done this

“Once or

led an interesting life, haven’t

kink. Then knotting cord to the loop, he loads the projectile into the front of the barrel where it protrudes, dangling the cord, then snaps fingers at me.

ease one from its slot. “What is it the Chinese say? May you live

that...” He pushes the cartridge into the breech, clicking it home. “… But it’s not

“True.”

to mine. “You going to tell me what the deal is with you

“One of them.”

but no-one blinked. Not even her own husband. And I’d not have thought Richard Haswell was the

Charlotte has two husbands. I

nothing for long seconds.

was one of the

snaps the gun closed. “Stand back. Just because it spits line instead

“Why?”

those brackets so the line will catch. Then we can follow on with a rope to take real weight. This stuff’s good to one-twenty pounds. Not enough to take me and certainly

just one of the brackets? Why not aim to straddle two or more if

He aims upwards, sighting

brass projectile streaks upwards, trailing its cord. As it approaches its target it flies straight as an arrow, but then overshooting, rises above the roof and abruptly veers off-course, taking

cranes to see. “Must be a wind blowing up

the brackets and the projectile clatters

vision, something shifts… a brighter

“Someone’s coming.”

the wall, at the last moment, we turn faces away from the betraying beam as a

silhouettes, behind the glare of a torch, accompanied by floating red embers and the

think it was? I didn’t

Some

“Probably kids or crack-heads.”

us to

darkness, frozen fog a-glitter in the air as it moves, then passes over

one of the cans flying as it goes. Then

tell Finchby he needs to

to

at the trash, a small red ember arcing

recede, I draw breath and then realise I'd been holding it. There’s a

cartridge. He stands where he stood before, then eyeing upwards,

follow behind. At the top of

time drops squarely over one

“Not two?”

the cord to the rope, then hauling

then hoists himself, his

up first. Once I’m up, I’ll re-anchor, then you send the bags up next. Then you

With the freeze,

hand over the other, feet propped against the

as

How old are you?

to be

that

jerks, it rises, vanishes into darkness, then the rope

years in fact. The rope feels unfamiliar in

upwards, the wall, sheer, vertical, smooth, looms vertiginously

Crap…

your ass. We

He did it…

So can I…

the rope. Feet propped up against the wall, knees flexing as I

point, biceps beginning to burn, I stop

from above. “Michael, what the fuck are

Smart bastard…

up from my right arm, reaching, and

my feet

the soles of my boots slide like some old slips-on-the-banana-skin joke, lose contact

my left arm reaching up, my entire weight drops onto my single right hand. For a heart-stopping second, the rope slides, the leather of the glove hot against my palm and my heartbeat accelerates from andante

Christ!

me, which I had taken to be a kind of uniformly black pit, is revealed as a mosaic of light and dark and grey which swirls under me alarmingly. All around, the lights of the City draw streaks of

is a hiss

Gimme

“I’m coming down…”