After leaving the hospital, Max kept his head down and slouched along like any other hoody in the crowd. Three hours after he left the warmth and comfort of the ward, he was chilled to the bone, soaked to the skin and racked with pain in every joint and muscle of his battered body. The only thing keeping him going was the dread of being caught and imprisoned. For all he knew, he might be a murderer and terrorist, and deserved to be excluded from society, but that did not make prison any more acceptable.
He headed towards Victoria Embankment, known for its soup kitchens, a focal point for the hordes of homeless people in the area. Knowing the hostels and soup kitchens would be under surveillance, he knew there was no point seeking food and shelter there.
Keeping out of sight in the back streets and alleys, Max came across a community of homeless down-and-outs, and felt sorry for them. Then he realized that they were all much better off than he was; they had shelter of sorts, warmer clothes and were not on the run.
Well, all but one, that is.
The old woman lying before him was dead, curled up on her right side in the fetal position. Her slightly open eyes with a misty glaze unsettled Max; it was as though she was watching him and knew what he was planning. The slightly sweet stench of death triggered a primal warning to keep away. It reached deep down into his gut in a way that the also-present stink of defecation could not.
“Jen passed last night.” uttered the gruff male voice from under a large sheet of cardboard, taken from a discarded box.
“Then she will not mind if I take her coat and brogues, will she?” replied Max in a quiet and respectful voice.
“Suppose not,” replied the wizened, dirty face, as it emerged from under the cardboard. The full, dirty white beard, stained brown at the man’s lips by drink and foul substances, was so stiff with filth that it no longer looked like human hair. The man’s lips hardly parted as he spoke in a somewhat grudging tone: “She’s the lucky one.”
As Max looked into the man’s pale grey, watery eyes, the pronounced yellowing of the whites suggested he would be joining her soon. Chronic liver disease would be the probable cause of death in his case. The face slid back under the cardboard, seeking solace there.
Max pushed against the woman’s uppermost forearm with his foot. It sprang back as if it belonged to a rubber mannequin. There was no other response.
The dirty camel coat she wore had to come off, and the uncooperative corpse was not going to part with it gracefully. Max stepped on her right arm with his left foot, pinning it to the ground. With his right leg pushed against the small of her back, he forced her left arm behind her. This took considerable effort, with her muscles and grinding arthritic arm joints strongly resisting. Max could now ease the arm out of the sleeve. When he released the arm, it sprang back almost to its original position and continued to move very slowly for about half a minute.
Somewhat unnerved by this, Max tipped the old woman onto her back, yanked the coat from under her, and eased the other sleeve off the right arm. Still in the fetal position, her dress slid upwards, revealing her naked, intimate places.
“I hope the coat and shoes fit. I never want to go through this again,” he spoke to himself. After respectfully repositioning her dress to restore her dignity, he laid the body back on its side. The shoes pulled off the feet easily. They were in excellent condition and fitted him perfectly.
As Max put on the coat over his garments and changed the trainers for the shoes, he realized that the thick coat was still warm. A shudder ran through him as if her distressed spirit had impaled him on a lance of ice. Max disposed of the trainers some distance away. The body would soon be found and he did not want the trainers to link him to this area.
As he continued his flight, slinking through a more upmarket slum area, he considered how he was going to get money to pay for shelter and food. He explored a number of options, but all conflicted with his dubious morals. Honest people would get hurt and stealing from them was just not right. They would also report the attack and draw the police to him. Thinking laterally, who would have money they do not deserve? Who would be unable to report they had been robbed? The answer was now clear; rob drug dealers and other criminals of their cash.
To some extent, Max had surprise on his side. An old tramp would be an unlikely threat to a dealer. However, he was very frail and racked with pain from his pelvis and ribs. He needed the tramp disguise to get in close and then strike a crippling blow. There would be no room for error or confrontation. He needed a weapon or two which might be found in some car repair or machine shop in the neighborhood.
Eventually, he saw the ideal car workshop. Although the double, side hinged entrance doors were secured with a formidable padlock, a small side window provided easy access. The obscure wired glass, heavily coated with grime was set in a rusty, metal frame. The putty had fallen out long ago and only needed a bit of persuasion with a sharp stick to work the glass free. “No noise of breaking glass to arouse the neighbors, or the risk of a nasty gash from shards left behind,” thought Max. “If I replace the glass when I leave, probably the owner will never realize there was a break in.”
Max removed his bulky coat and tried the opening for size. Fortunately, he would be able to get through. Dropping back to the ground, he pushed his coat through the opening and quickly followed. It took about a minute for his eyes to become accustomed to the gloom and he paused on top of a tool-strewn workbench until he was confident he would not knock anything over or injure himself on something, as he jumped down to the floor.
The idea of a sharpened screwdriver used as a dagger appealed to him. In a toolbox, he found the ideal tool, just over one foot long. Extended from his hand like a mini sword, it would keep an opponent with a knife at bay. Its flattened plastic handle offered a good, secure grip, with minimal risk of his hand slipping if a hard thrust struck bone. Using a piece of sturdy string, he tied a small loop at one end and passed the string through it to form a loose, adjustable loop around his upper right arm. The other end would be tied around the handle so when the screwdriver dropped down his sleeve, the handle would stop neatly at his palm. Vlad (the impaler), as Max called it, would be out of sight until needed.
Max found an electric bench grinder and within two minutes, ground the tip to a sharp point. To prevent this point snagging in his sleeve or stabbing him when it slid down to his palm, he fitted a short plastic insulation tube over it.
He needed a different type of weapon as an alternative and for close combat. Vlad could easily kill the opponent, but with most body wounds, it usually took some time for a person to bleed to death, unless the heart or a major artery was pierced. Max would be vulnerable until then. A cosh is a handy weapon. Silent to use, it would instantly render the opponent unconscious, compared to Vlad, which could invoke much swearing and screaming from the wounded opponent. There was no chance of making a leather bag filled with lead filings or wet sand. That would be the ideal cosh, because its weight and ability to form itself to the shape of the victim’s skull minimizes blood spatter from split skin and skull fracture.
The nearest thing Max could find was a solid steel bar about three inches long and one inch diameter. Using the nylon pull cord from a chain saw motor as a looped handle, he wrapped the bar in adhesive tape and bandages from the medical cabinet to provide some shaping at the point of impact and to securely connect it to the loop ends. When finished, the loop fitted securely around Max’s left wrist and the weighted end dangled just beyond his clenched fingers. This weapon, which Max called Goodnight, would be tucked up his left sleeve, out of sight until needed, and ready to fall into his hand on releasing it.
Waiting in the workshop for total darkness to fall, he pondered where he could find a drug dealer or courier. Max knew the normal modus operandi. The drug user phoned his dealer, who stipulated a time and place to meet. The courier would arrive by bicycle, snatch the cash and give the drugs. The exchange location would be out of public sight and with multiple exits.
Couriers used bicycles to avoid capture. A motorbike or scooter is noisy and actually less maneuverable over a pre-planned obstacle course. The courier, usually very fit and a fast runner, seldom carries more drugs than the deal demands. If caught by the police, he claims his stash is only for his own use.
At £50 per pack, it would take Max a long time to get enough money; and after the first attack, the dealer’s mates would be hunting for him. Regardless of the risks, Max had no choice but to keep in the shadows and either mug a user before he parted with his cash, or strike the courier before he pedaled away.
Today, luck continued to favor Max. Cautiously peering down an alley, he saw a deal going down. Nine users were clamoring for their drugs and no one had noticed him creeping towards them from the shadows. At this point, there was a better than fifty-fifty chance that the courier would exit in Max’s direction. He had come from the far end and was still facing him on his bicycle.
The courier sorted his money and slipped it into a belt-pouch, whilst the users were hurrying away from Max, eager to get their fix. The courier looked up and saw Max shuffling towards him about thirty yards away. The courier glanced behind and saw no threat. Then for some reason, he accelerated full pelt towards Max, his legs like high speed pistons.
Having got up to speed, he stuck out his right leg and aimed for Max. In an instant, Max realized the courier was going to kick into him on his way past, so he fell to the ground at the last moment and threw out his right arm to eject Vlad. The screwdriver shaft penetrated the spokes, and locked the front wheel against the front fork. With an almighty wrench, Max pulled Vlad free as the bicycle flipped over, pitching the courier head-first over the handlebars. Rolling over, Max looked towards the flying man, and found himself amazed and horrified.
Like a cat, the man landed on his feet, leaning back as his smoking trainers skidded to a halt. Unperturbed at the turn of events, he spun around to face Max, who was still prostrate on the ground. The man flicked open a long, thin bladed knife and ran towards Max so quickly that he had no chance to raise Vlad in a defensive thrust. The courier stood on Max’s right wrist and knelt on his chest with his other leg, the knifepoint at his throat, understanding that Max had planned to attack and rob him.
Max conceded defeat; he slowly lowered his head back onto the road and looked at the black sky above. The man eased back a little, disappointed the fight had ended so soon. Now he put his full weight through the knee onto Max’s chest eliciting two sharp cracks from the healing ribs, drowned in a scream of agony.
A look of delight crossed the assailant’s face at the scream and he eased back, letting the knife hand drop against his leg. Another cry of pain came from Max as he anticipated the knee forcing more ribs to crack. In that instant, he swung up his left arm with the cosh extended, smashing Goodnight through the thin bone between the man’s left eye and ear.
Blood gushed into the cerebral fluid around the man’s brain and down the cerebellum. The indescribable pain in his head caused every muscle in his body to go into spasm and he fell off Max like a wooden statue. The blood pressure on the brain stem killed him stone dead.
A reasonable person might argue that it was self-defense and an accident, but not Max. Pumped up with adrenalin, he saw it as proof he was a murderer and a fugitive with nothing to lose.
The drug users had turned back at the sound of the fight, but as Max stood up and brandished Vlad at them, glinting in the faint streetlight, they scurried away. Max searched the courier for money and found £900 and three burner phones. The most used outgoing call would probably be to the main dealer. He rang the number and as soon as he heard a man’s voice, said in a weak, pained voice, not hard to do just then, “Help me, please help me. I have been attacked in Narrow Lane.” Then Max switched off all the phones and hid between rubbish bins, deep in the shadows.
Within five minutes, he heard the squeal of tires and the roar of a car engine as it accelerated past him and stopped near the dead courier. Four men got out, walked cautiously towards the body and examined it, searching for drugs and money. Then an intense argument broke out as they speculated who could have murdered him. It was then that Max eased out of the shadows. Under cover of their raised voices, he popped the car boot and climbed in.
The ride back to the dealers’ base was brief. Luckily, no one needed anything from the boot when the car eventually stopped.
When everything was quiet, Max forced open the boot lid with Vlad, and cautiously climbed out. There was no one about. After noting the address, Wilson Terrace, he slunk away.