Bloodstorm (4 page)

A
N EXPERT IN
his profession as a cat burglar, Andy Fleming had always regarded himself as the
crème de la crème
of criminal entrepreneurs. Coming from the old school of thought that a burglar is only as good as his bag of tools – and, like
American Express,
one should never leave home without it – from his bag of tricks resting at his feet, Andy extracted a pair of
Bushnell
night vision binoculars. They felt compact and lightweight in his hands.

Patience being a virtue – but in Andy’s case also a necessity – he gazed downward from his elevated position, overlooking the alluring but brooding house with its umbrella of slouching trees.

Andy had come up from Dublin for the day to visit an old friend in Belfast, and had happened upon the large house, quite by chance, one afternoon, two weeks back. Asking directions to the nearest petrol
station, he took a wrong left turn which, paradoxically, became the correct right turn, ten minutes south, deep in a somewhat undeveloped section of outer-town, not a kick in the arse from Belfast’s scenic Cave Hill area.

A genuine believer in fate, Andy made a mental chart of the house, waiting for the opportune moment to arise before casing the place to acquire all necessary information.

Checking his watch’s phosphorescent hands for the seventh time – seven being his lucky number – Andy decided that now was the moment to strike. Nearing midnight, there had been no movement in or near the house for at least three hours.

Gathering his tools, he proceeded downwards, stealthily, cat-like on all fours but not before slipping a nitroglycerine tablet under his tongue, hoping to discourage the elephant-sitting-on-his-chest feeling. The stress of the job over the years had hammered Andy’s health, yet with little in the way of union benefits or a pension, he saw little hope in a career move so late in the game of life.

With his bony face crawling with shadows, Andy came tantalizingly within touching distance of his target, less than two minutes from his original spotting position.

Beside an ancient tree, a
No Trespassing
sign stood awkwardly, held intact by a family of bleeding rusty nails.

Craning his neck slightly, Andy quickly appraised the challenge before him. A blue warning IPS sign –
Intrusion Prevention System
– was blazoned on the house’s cable wall, barely hidden from view.

From his bag, he quickly removed a small container of
Elastoplast Spray Plaster
, and liberally sprayed his hands. Less than a minute later, the hands were gloved in transparent film. Andy loved the inventor of the ingenious medical spray, since the first time he came across it, accidentally at his local
Boots
store. No stifling gloves for Andy Fleming, ever again.

Careful not to leave any tool prints, Andy snipped one wire in the box and curved it into a question mark, smiling wryly at disarming the alarm so effortlessly. It never failed to amaze Andy how house owners always advertised their so-called protection systems proudly for all to see. If they were meant as a deterrent, they had never deterred him.

Of the three basic types of burglars roaming modern streets – opportunists, prowlers and professionals – Andy proudly regarded himself as most definitely the latter. From professionals, two types reign supreme: locusts and snipers. Locusts work in teams, stripping houses bare, leaving a barren region in their wake. What makes locusts dangerous is that they are not afraid. It takes serious nerve to calmly invade and stay in someone’s home until it is picked clean. Because they are not afraid, locusts can also become far more aggressive if surprised. Sometimes an unexpected encounter with a locust can be quite deadly.

Andy had always detested locusts, believing they bring a bad name to the profession. A sniper, like Andy, on the other hand, always regarded himself as a thinking criminal who is there for something specific, like the suave art thief depicted in French movies. Andy loved French crime movies, and believed himself to be something of a Robin Hood, taking from the rich to give to the poor – the poor being Andy Fleming. Truth be told, Andy’s
modus operandi
was confusingly somewhere in between the snipers and locusts. He could never use violence, but as far as going after a specific target, Andy was more inclined to steal whatever tickled his fancy at particular moments as an uninvited guest.

Removing a small leather wallet from his inside pocket, Andy’s fingers delicately traced the assortment of lock picks concealed within as he crept to the back of the house with its dark mahogany door. Less than a minute later, the large substantial door opened, its resistance defeated by the tiny pick.

Andy welcomed himself in.

In the shading darkness, the sprawling nature of the large house came together in a rush, like two hands cupping around him. He closed his eyes for seven seconds before slowly opening them. An old trick to acclimatise the eyes, it never failed to work, and he speedily but carefully made his way upstairs, thanking the Lord and all His glory for the carpet muffling his footsteps.

On the landing, a large grandfather clock stood guard, its hollow ticking sounding like raindrops on a tin roof. Three bedrooms and a bathroom waited for him on the floor. The bathroom came first. People were becoming craftier in hiding expensive items. Hollowed shaving
cream tins, false bars of soap. Andy had witnessed them all – and removed them all.

Two minutes later, he was out of the bathroom, empty-handed but fully undeterred, entering the first of three bedrooms, listening for any sign of life.

The first room appeared to be for guests. He peeped in before walking into the room. It was empty of occupants and anything worthwhile. The next two rooms followed suit. They were sterile clean, bleached of warmth or cosiness.

Contrary to feeling defeated, Andy’s heart moved up a beat, as if knowing the next floor housed all the treasures.

Easy … take your time …

Soft sounds emanated from the first room on the second floor. The sounds caused tiny bats of nervousness and anticipation to flutter in his stomach as he stopped at the door, pressing his ear tight against the cold wood.

Easy … you’ve heard them all before …

Thin scars of primitive light leaked beneath the door. He pressed gently down on the handle and entered, eyes quickly focusing on the large bed and the lumpy charcoal shape residing between the sheets.

A woman? Shit!

The timbre of the sleeping woman’s breath was soft and resonant, making Andy’s ears tingle, forcing him to stare, trance-like, at the tranquil body. The bats had disappeared in his stomach, quickly replaced by something akin to sexual butterflies.

This was Andy’s Achilles’ heel: voyeurism. Once before, two years back, he had almost been caught because of it. But no matter how hard he tried, he simply couldn’t resist its Pied Piper pull.

Studying her face in the pale light, Andy found it difficult to estimate the woman’s age. Small black moles clustered around her eyes, akin to flies on a starving child. Strands of hair had fallen across her face, resting in her mouth like a fragmentary nest.

Don’t
, whispered a voice of reason in his head while his fingers moved slowly to her face, easing the hair from her mouth, tenderly, like a lover.
You’re asking to be caught. Move away, get the stuff and get the hell away from –

The woman stirred, moaning slightly through parted lips.

Andy stopped breathing immediately, taking in her sound. Delicious. Suddenly, he felt the seed of an erection germinating in his pants.

“
Oh
…”

Oh, indeed.

The woman slowly turned on her side, causing body heat and womanly smells to rise from the sheets, intoxicatingly entering Andy’s nostrils. It was enough to drive him crazy. He was positive, absolutely positive, he could faintly smell the ghost of a man’s cologne hanging somewhere between the smells mixing with the residue of stale sex.

Had she been fucking, earlier on, just before I got here?
This thought caused Andy’s erection to fully bloom.

Stepping back quickly and admonishing himself for such unprofessional behaviour, he quickly recommenced his task, rummaging through the woman’s underwear drawer. Smells smacked him up the face: faded chemicals, mothballs, and the heady perfume that older women wear to remind them that they were once very young.

A man’s gold
Rolex
, tucked beneath a pair of socks, was Andy’s reward. Husband’s? Was that the person he had seen, leaving the house, earlier in the day, in a fancy car?

The drawers surrendered little else.
Where would she keep her rings, bracelets, female things?
There was nothing on her delicate wrists or fingers.
The goodies
have
to be somewhere near. Women don’t like their jewellery to be too far from their bosoms.

Quickly scanning the room, his eyes alighted upon a group of framed photos, mostly family pictures crisscrossed with scenes of mountains and woodlands. Andy smiled back at the smiling faces, seeing his own reflected in the glass. It was the photo of a woman patting dogs that immobilised his smile.

He didn’t recognise the breed.
Ugly looking big bastards. Imagine them slobbering big fuckers getting their jaws on you?
A shiver ran up Andy’s spine, then U-turned to his dick, causing his erection to quickly deflate. Andy had never liked like dogs. Dogs had never liked Andy.
Where the fuck are the dogs now?

Galvanised by the thought of Ugly Big Bastard grabbing him by the nuts, squeezing the life out of them, Andy hastened his search, clumsily almost knocking a music box to the ground. He cursed the box until its open drawer revealed a family of rings, six in all, studded with diamonds. A necklace, rimmed with gems, hugged the rings.

Lovely, lovely, lovely. Diamonds, not fucking dogs, are a man’s best friend.

Not being a greedy person and never one to shit in his own nest, Andy was more than satisfied with his night’s work. Quickly easing out of the room, he refused to look back at the woman in the bed lest temptation called again.

Without as much as a creak, the tongue of carpeted stairs took his full weight, directing him back down towards freedom.

Yelp
…

Andy suddenly became motionless, allowing the naked silence to fill his mouth.

What the fuck? A dog?
Inching forward, his hand reached the handle of the kitchen door. He opened it. Stepped in. Even in the dim light, he could make out the pattern of the back door at the end of the kitchen. A few more seconds and the cool night air would greet him.

Yelp
…

The sound was coming from the basement. A scratching noise followed by a yelp.

Stifling all breathing, Andy listened but could hear nothing other than the heavy thumps of pulse and heart echoing in his skull. In his mind, the bastard of a dog was at the door, scratching to get out, tear off his balls and chew his pickle clean off.

But why wasn’t it barking, only yelping?
The sneaky bastard is well trained, that’s why. It’s trying to alert its owner, all the while trying to avoid alerting trespassers. Sneaky no-good fucker.

Yelp
…

Just as Andy touched the back door to freedom, his reluctant ears deciphered the annoying word. It wasn’t yelp. The ‘y’ was all wrong and twisted. It was something else, something sending a piano of icy fingers up his spine. Ghostly, the letter ‘h’ suddenly replaced ‘y’ …

“Help …”

Help? What the fuck? Get out. Ignore it. It’s a trick. Ugly Big Bastard is hiding behind that door waiting to come barrelling at you.

“Please … please help … me …” croaked a scarcely human sound.

Feeling an uneasiness slide into his stomach, Andy’s face paled to the colour of eggshell. The hairs on the back of his neck began to dance.
Run! Get away as far as you can. They’re on to you, Andy fucking Fleming!

Against all his years of experience and intuition, Andy stood still, debating his next move.

Are you crazy? Get out!

It could be some poor bastard in trouble.

If you don’t get out now, you’ll be the poor bastard in trouble.

Hesitantly, he moved towards the basement. Above the basement door stretched a lazy-looking 20-gauge shotgun, held in stock by two simple nails. Andy abhorred all guns, but under exceptional circumstances he was more than willing to make an exception. Disturbing the weapon, he awkwardly placed it in his shaking hands.

Easing the basement door open a nervous fraction and gingerly pressing his eye against the sliver of a gap, Andy suddenly staggered back at the sight staring at him from within. It was pink, wetted with licks of red and darkness. It immediately gave poor Andy a fit of the shivers and shits. Yet the horrendous sight was less disturbing than the terrifying truth: this thing had once been human, but now, removed of all skin, it resembled something from an abattoir, freshly slaughtered with the stench of death and decay upon it. The stench swiftly bypassed his nostrils, making its way directly to Andy’s somersaulting gut.

“Oh dear Lord …” muttered Andy, retching violently.

Without warning, the creature stretched out its paw-like hand. The thing’s mouth was leaking sounds, dreadful soulless whimpering sounds. “Help … me. They’re mad …”

Only now had Andy noticed the small box tucked neatly against the wooden wall inside the basement, its blinking blue eye winking accusingly. He wanted to laugh at his own stupidity and arrogance, snipping the wires of a decoy that any amateur would have spotted a mile off.

Cops! They would be on their way. How long had the silent alarm been screaming at the nearest station? Fuck! Five years in jail at your age, Andy Fleming, will be a life sentence. Told you to get out while you could. There’s still time. Run!