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Flynn nodded, totally understanding. ‘How did he know you had the charter in the first place?'

‘He must've heard us talking in the bar we were in last night. We were all really looking forward to it and chatting a bit loud and messing about, I suppose. He muscled in and threatened us all. His girlfriend stood behind him and looked like she ate fava beans and human livers.'

‘Did he pay you off?'

‘No.' The young man looked crestfallen, having to admit this dent in his pride and courage.

‘Which bar were you in?' The man told him. ‘You know we tried to contact you this morning?'

‘He said we weren't to take any calls from you and if we turned up to complain, he'd drown us. I believed him.'

Flynn's rage began to bubble at the effrontery of Costain, believing he could just waltz in with his insidious threats of violence and get away with it.

‘Well, I'm sorry that happened,' Flynn said. He reached into his back pocket and withdrew five neatly folded one hundred euro notes. He handed them to the man. ‘This is your deposit back.'

The man's mouth popped open like a grouper fish. ‘It's not your fault, it's mine, being a pathetic twat.'

‘Take it,' Flynn insisted. ‘I've known and dealt with men like Costain all my life and you did the right thing by backing off – honestly. He would have knifed you, trust me. Take the money back.'

‘You sure?'

‘Oh yes, take it, it's yours … and just so you know, I caned him good and proper because I thought his whole story stank.' His eyes twinkled mischievously. ‘And I haven't finished with him, either. He caused me too much grief today. How much longer are you on the island for?'

‘Four days.'

‘Come along to the boat the day after tomorrow, nine o'clock sharp. I'll give you and your party the best day's fishing ever – for free, then we'll all go and get the best paella on the island later.'

The man's eyes bulged. ‘Are you certain?'

‘Positive. And now I think it's time me and Mr Costain and Cruella de Vil had a heart to heart.'

Fatigue was close to engulfing him, right to his very core. He had thought that he might have wanted a long, hot bath, but found he couldn't be bothered. After he'd eaten the curry of the day, downed a pint, a JD chaser and three paracetamols to ward off the aches he felt were coming, Henry had a hot shower, then crawled into the bed he shared with Alison in the private living accommodation at the rear of the Tawny Owl.

He fell asleep almost instantly.

F
lynn strode through the public gardens, past his villa, towards the commercial centre.

The pathway meandering up between the manicured lawns and high palms was quiet, but Flynn did not really notice one way or the other because he was concentrating single-mindedly on his self-imposed quest for vengeance. Just to feel what Scott Costain's skull would be like to punch. When he reached the main road he managed to stop at the end of the walkway as a black Mercedes jerked to a sudden stop right in front of him, impeding his crossing.

Flynn groaned with annoyance but did not pay any attention to the car or even wonder why it had stopped. It was just an obstacle to get around and, instinctively, he began to walk around the back of it.

At which point two things happened simultaneously.

The rear door swung open and a voice somewhere over his left shoulder called, ‘Oi, Flynn.'

He twisted to look. Saw two men in dark clothing, neither of whom he recognized, just feet away from him. Then saw the stubby club in the hand of the one on the right arcing towards his head. Flynn ducked, feeling the whizz of air whoosh just an inch away from his ear, but he staggered backwards against the open car door, noting – fleetingly – the dark shape of a man in the back seat of the Merc, at the far side. Fortunately for Flynn, the way in which he had backed against the car door meant he was still facing the two men, one of whom screamed, ‘Get the bastard!'

They rushed towards him, the club raised to strike again.

In a parallel thought, Flynn cursed inwardly. His head was muzzy, his reactions slow from three pints of San Miguel and a paella, his thinking skewed because of his concentrated thoughts and the prospect of some sort of physical confrontation with Costain.

He hadn't been mentally prepared to take on two determined attackers who came out of nowhere.

He shook his brain, tried to get into gear, and did the thing that managed to catch the two men off balance.

He dropped his right shoulder and charged between them, keeping his head low. He connected somewhere midway, spinning them around and forcing them off balance. But as the one with the club stumbled sideways he swung the weapon around again as he pivoted away and caught Flynn a glancing blow across the back of his skull like a topspin shot at tennis. It had the desired effect of knocking him off his feet. He went sprawling on to his hands and knees on the footpath.

Quickly recovering their composure after Flynn's surprise fight back, they dived on to him before he could roll up, pinning him to the concrete with their combined weight.

Flynn twisted, fought, squirming and rearing like a bucking bronco, but they straddled him and he couldn't shake them off. One forced his head into the ground, pounding him on the temple with very heavy fists. The other man dragged Flynn's arms around his back. Flynn felt plastic handcuffs going on, drawing his wrists inexorably together.

This served to make him fight harder. With a roar and a rush of strength he rolled over and kicked out wildly.

One of the men howled in agony as Flynn connected. He had flat-footed him in the groin. The man cradled his smashed testicles and doubled over, sank to his knees, spluttering, ‘Oh Jesus, God,' as the pain seared up through his stomach like a skewer.

The other one, armed with the club, swung it hard again at Flynn's head. He saw it coming from the corner of his eye, could not react quickly enough and the heavy stub of lead-filled wood clonked against his head like a mini wrecking ball. For a moment everything went to a juddering blank, decorated by shooting stars, and the next thing Flynn knew for certain was that he was being bundled into the back seat of the Mercedes, thrown heavily into the footwell behind the front seats, his head and shoulders underneath the feet of the man who was already inside. One of his attackers slid in alongside the guy and slammed his feet down on Flynn's rib cage, making him wheeze as the air shot out of his lungs and he wondered if he heard one of his bones crack like a Twiglet.

The other man of the pair who had pounced on him slammed the car door shut and dropped into the front passenger seat, groaning as he sat and readjusted his balls.

The car screeched away from the kerb into the night traffic. The man sitting above Flynn's head stomped his feet repeatedly on to the side of his face like he was pounding some sort of fitness machine. Flynn tried to position his head to lessen the impact, but the blows still came down hard and in the end, pinned down, hardly able to move, his hands tied behind his back, head swimming, he just had to let it all happen. His brain switched off and he closed his eyes without ever expecting to open them again.

At the Tawny Owl, Alison Marsh flopped into bed next to the spread-eagled Henry. She rearranged his limbs gently so she could at least fit in next to her exhausted, half-drowned fiancé.

She snuggled down contentedly, grinning a little as she felt Henry begin to harden.

‘Good day, babe?' he murmured into her ear.

She stifled what would have been a long yawn. ‘Mmm,' she said dreamily. Her right hand slithered back behind her and she took hold of him in a reverse grip. Somewhere from deep in his throat came a groan.

‘Even had an American guy in for breakfast … real charmer … I now officially run an international business,' she said, let go of Henry and fell asleep.

Henry, who hadn't opened his eyes, said, ‘Great,' but then frowned as a thought bounced transiently across his brain. Before he could grab it, dissect it, analyse it, he too was back to sleep. The blood ebbed and he began to snore contentedly in Alison's ear.

Hawke eased his jacket off with care, unbuttoned his shirt and with even more care peeled this garment off slowly, particularly when he extracted his right arm from the sleeve, exposing the burned flesh where the flare had hit him. He gasped as he was forced to tug the last little bit of shirt fabric; it had stuck to the burn, which itself felt as if it was still sizzling. He dropped the shirt on to the floor and looked angrily at his singed flesh.

The burn ran all the way from his right nipple where it spread out in the shape of a fried egg, up his shoulder, across and down his right bicep, then changed into a shape resembling a Chinese dragon – with teeth.

The phosphorus had seared his flesh into a silvery-black colour that shimmered as he twisted his arm and inspected it, his face a crumpled scowl. Some parts of the burn were weeping yellowish green pus that came up through it like olive oil through gauze.

Hawke hissed with pain as he applied a full tube of Savlon antiseptic cream to the wound, jerking when he inadvertently touched it with the neck of the tube.

‘Like I said,' the old man was reiterating, watching dispassionately and without sympathy as Hawke treated himself. ‘I don't like complications.'

Hawke raised his eyes malignly.

The old man returned the look, unafraid. He then lifted his ragdoll-like paralysed legs one at a time and placed them on the footrest of his motorized wheelchair. Using the joystick, he swung the state of the art chair away from Hawke, almost like he was turning a horse, and accelerated across the wooden floor of the living room to the bar on the rear wall, which had been constructed to his specifications so it was the correct height for him to prepare his own drinks.

He dug some shaved ice out of an icebox and slid it into a long glass, poured in a large measure of whisky and added a blast of soda from a syphon.

‘I could do with one of those – neat,' Hawke said.

The old man swilled his drink around, took a sip, ignored Hawke and aimed the wheelchair across the room to the large settee.

Sprawled on it was a young, very slim girl, sleeping. She was fourteen years old and was naked. Hearing the whirring approach of the wheelchair, her oriental eyes shot open. Once these had been beautiful, wide green eyes, the eyes of a child, full of wonder and hope. They were still the eyes of a child, but no longer beautiful. Now they were sunk in their sockets, all fear, exhaustion and resignation. Without hope, without a future. She knew exactly what was expected of her with regard to the evil man, the cripple, in the wheelchair.

She moved slowly on to her back, her dead eyes focused on the ceiling, drew up her knees and parted her legs.

The old man manoeuvred his wheelchair alongside her, a greedy look of lust and scorn on his grey, wrinkled face. He reached out and touched her belly, his thin, gnarled fingers snaking downwards.

‘My lovely.' He smiled.

She returned his look with one of abject terror, which made him smile even more as his fingertips extended downwards and she arched herself up to him.

Suddenly he jerked his hand off her stomach, frustrated and annoyed with himself, knowing the only sexual reaction he could have now was within his own head. He despised the fact that he had a beautiful young Asian girl naked on his settee and no amount of touching, probing, licking or biting would ever bring a response from his body.

She gasped a sigh of relief as he jerked the control on his wheelchair and spun away. She hugged herself into a ball, burying her face into the back of the settee.

Hawke had finished plastering himself with the Savlon. He was now at the bar, shirt still off. He threw four Nurofen tablets down his throat and washed them down with the neat whisky he had poured. He had downed over twenty tablets that day. Initially they had taken some of the edge off the constant pulse of pain, but now they were having little effect.

‘I need a doctor,' he whined, ‘and some decent drugs.'

‘I've called my pet GP. He's on his way,' the old man said, staring cynically at Hawke. ‘I thought you were a pro.'

‘Hey,' he responded, affronted, ‘even pros sometimes make mistakes. The fact a cop showed up –' he shrugged his left shoulder – ‘just bad luck.'

He poured more whisky and threw it down his throat.

‘Anyways, I'm gonna sort that SOB, cop or no cop. No one gets away with doing this to me.' He glared down at his cream-smeared burn, the pure white Savlon mixing with the oozing green pus, reminding him of oil paint. ‘I look like a fuckin' napalmed geek, scarred for life, man, scarred for life. He'll suffer – and so will his bitch of a girlfriend. Henry Christie my ass. Dead Henry.'

‘What? Who?' the old man asked sharply. He had not been paying close attention to Hawke's babbling until the name was mentioned. ‘What name did you say?'

‘Henry Christie.'

‘Henry Christie?' the old man said thoughtfully. Then, ‘Henry Christie? Are you certain?'

‘Oh yeah – dead certain – why?'

‘Then you have my blessing. You can kill that man for me right now and rape his girlfriend, then kill her too, in any order you wish. In fact I'll give you good money for it.'

‘Why?' Hawke became excited at the prospect of killing someone for pleasure, purely as an act of revenge,
and
getting paid for it. He was already visualizing the scene: both parties tied up, Christie being made to watch the horrific defilement of the lovely Alison, then her death before his own.

‘Let's just say he's been a thorn in the side of my family for far too long and this might just be the ideal opportunity to deal with him.'

‘Sounds like a good plan.' Hawke looked across the room at the girl on the settee, still curled up tight, her thin bottom towards them, her spine and pelvic bones pushed against her skin.