The Gilded Madonna by Garrick Jones (ebook reader for comics TXT) 📕

into the bowl at the same time. Once again, I noticed his aim was unerring. There was no question he was very used to using a weapon. We’d thought, because of the bullet trajectory when he’d shot the council man, that Kemeny was unskilled, or nervous. But now, I realised it was the combined length of the barrel and the long silencer used at such close range that had made it awkward, requiring Kemeny to bend his elbow way back and therefore make it hard to keep the gun steady when the trigger was pressed.

The room had two doors. One was that of the lavatory, and the other, partially opened, revealed a dimly lit room that seemed to be where he relaxed—I could see the edge of an armchair and an ashtray stand. The room in which Mark and I were sitting on the floor had two pieces of furniture: a low table near the bottom of the stairs that led down from above, and an iron–framed, narrow hospital bed, the mattress of which was partially covered with a loosely draped sheet

He’d just flushed the toilet and had buttoned up his flies when I heard three thumps against the iron door at the top of the stairs. A moment later it was followed by four and then, after another short pause, by another two thumps.

“Didn’t think I’d risk this by myself now, did you, Smith?”

I took a gamble. “Another of your pals from Mudgee, Kemeny?”

He laughed and then spat in my face before kicking the side of my head. I saw stars.

“You call me Kemeny once more, Smith, and I might take my time having fun with you. How much pain you think you can put up with, eh?”

I spat on the floor, tasting blood. “There’s nothing you can do the Krauts didn’t. The only thing they didn’t do was kill me.”

“Good to know,” he snarled. “At least that leaves me an option. Now, I’m fed up with you—you talk far too much, Smith. I’m not stupid, I can tell you’re trying to get into my mind, trying to make me angry enough to do something foolish. But that’s not going to happen. You know why?”

“I’m sure you’re going to tell me … Kemeny.”

His eyes glowed and he punched me hard, right on the bridge of my nose, causing my head to bang against the wall. I felt a trickle of blood running down from my nostril and over my lip. I licked it away and then grinned at him. I guess that made him even angrier because he socked me again and then grabbed a handful of my hair, almost spitting into my mouth as he yelled into my face.

“From now on, you don’t get to say a word, only the copper does.” He produced his razor from his pocket, flicking it open, like a Geisha with her fan. “Every time you open your mouth, I’ll cut you somewhere different, and deeper each time. Understood?”

I glared at him.

“I’ll take that as a yes, shall I?” The pounding started at the door again, using the same sequence. I crossed my ankles, in case he decided to kick me in the balls, and then spat again as he turned and went up the stairs.

“Remember what Luka said, Mark,” I whispered as soon as I saw his feet disappear out of view.

“Be careful, Clyde.”

“I’m all right. It’s you I’m worried for. I’ve been in these situations lots before, I know what might happen. It doesn’t make me any less frightened, but at least I know what to expect.”

“And what’s that?”

“He’ll probably tie me to that bed and force himself upon me and then cut my throat when he ejaculates, the same as his murder victims. Why else do you think I’m here?”

“Jesus! How can you be so calm about it? Why am I here then?”

“It’s obvious, Mark. It’s just like Luka said—you’re the witness. He intends to kill me, but he wants you to tell the story. No fame, no gain. Shh …!”

He’d opened the door at the top of the stairs and was talking to whoever it was up there. Had it not been for the concrete–sided narrow staircase, I’d have heard nothing. But I did hear snatches of conversation as it echoed down to us.

“Get everything?” Kemeny asked.

“Yes, but I need to get moving.”

“Help me with these two first …” And then there was indistinct speech for a minute or two.

“I need money. They need stuff.”

“I’ll give you a tenner, that’s all I’ve got. Before you go … passbook … signed withdrawal slips …” More mumbling.

“See you at Bishop’s later then?”

“Yeah. Just lay low and I’ll …”

And then their voices became indistinct for one or two more sentences before they started coming down the stairs.

When he came into view, I saw Kemeny’s mate was just as lanky as he was, but somehow crooked. There was something about his stance and the angle of his arms that made me think he’d been seriously injured at some stage. “Cop or Smith first?” he asked.

“The dangerous one, Freckles. Feet first.”

Kemeny sat on my knees facing me, his cut–throat razor sliding gently across my throat. I held my breath while “Freckles” tied up my feet with a rope.

“Normally, I give my men a bit of tongue, but somehow, Smith, I think you’d bite it off,” Kemeny said.

Before I could react, the man who’d tied up my feet stood and then, for no apparent reason, grabbed a handful of my hair and banged my head against the wall. This time it really hurt and my ears began to ring.

Kemeny took the opportunity to tie a cloth he’d pulled from his pocket around my mouth, gagging me. As my vision cleared, I looked up to see Freckles pull the small table across the room and then place the overnight bag he’d brought with him on it. He laid a few things out on the table, but it was only when I saw him hold up a