Author Of Pain: Minor Mayhem by David Dwan - HTML preview

EPILOGUE

 

 

 

It felt like a dream. So much so that as he lent against the stone pillar close to the entrance into St. Mark’s square here in Venice, Peter Nichols lightly banged his head against the masonry in lieu of pinching himself. His heart swelled and tears came to his eyes, not an unfamiliar state for them by any means, but for the first time in so long, these were tears of joy.

 

The woman sitting at a table outside one of the many cafés that lined the famous Venetian tourist attraction, took a sip from her espresso and closed her eyes as listened to an orchestra which was set up on a small stage in front of the café. It was playing an old Italian love song, Nichols vaguely knew from somewhere, a film perhaps. Although the woman was in the afternoon shade she positively glowed to Nichols.

 

He moved around the outskirts of the square, dodging a gaggle of school children window shopping nearby. Two of the boys couldn't resist racing out into the square to chase off the million or so pigeons that had taken up permanent residence there. They exploded into flight much to the boys delight but the joy on their faces turned to grimaces as one of their teachers, a stern looking middle aged woman shouted at them in French to get back in line or she would feed them to the pigeons as punishment.

 

Now that he could see her face more clearly he gave a prayer of thanks, even from where he was standing, he could make out a thin network of scars snaking across the skin but they looked superficial enough and considering the state she was in the last time he saw her, she looked perfect to him. He walked across the crowded square and over to her table. She was still leaning back in her chair, eyes closed taking in the music, with a thin but contented smile on her face.

 

Nichols paused by the table to compose himself and had to fight the urge just to grab a hold of her and hug the life right out of her. Instead is just said her name. “Ania?”

 

The smile grew hearing her name but she didn't open her eyes straight away, a fact that Nichols was grateful for as the scars deepen as she did so, which made Nichols wince briefly, then thankfully they faded once more and she finally looked up at him. “You're late,” she said gently and got to her feet. They embraced warmly and Peroni kissed his cheek. “It's good to see you Father...” She stopped mid-sentence and wrinkled her nose.

 

“It's just plain Peter now, Ania,” he said with a shrug.

 

“That's going to take some getting used to,” she gestured to the seat next to her and they both sat.

 

“God, you look great Ania,” tears threatened once more and he had to compose himself before continuing. She took both his hands in her’s.

 

“I'm fine,” she said. “Almost good as new.”

 

“It's a miracle,” he said and it was. The scars would always be there he knew, but would fade by the year. She had escaped not only with her life, but thanks to the quick thinking doctor on duty that day, her sight too. Now he was close he could see both her eyes had faint discolouration from the damage they sustained but she could see well enough. A miracle indeed.

 

“I heard they gave you a pretty rough time afterwards,” Ania said.

 

“You know that Vatican, they love a good inquisition.”

 

Her face grew grave. “They wouldn't let us testify, said we were too weak.” She frowned bitterly.

 

“Hey, come on,” Nichols lifted her chin. “None of this was your fault. I took the blame because it was mine to take.”

 

“Rubbish,”

 

“It's true, and don't worry about me, I'm fine.”

 

“Was it pretty rough?”

 

He shrugged again and gave a dismissive wave of the hand. “We've survived demons, Ania. What could possibly be rough after that?”

 

It had been over four months now since Nichols had left the Vatican, he had been allowed to leave, bizarrely with a hefty pay out and he was still on official Vatican records as a 'consultant.' In exchange, or so Nichols believed for his silence.

 

Those at the highest levels at the Vatican, those close to the Pope, but not the man himself who was always shielded from such matters as these. Knew the knowledge he had was dangerous to the much prized and ferociously guarded equilibrium of the establishment. And they didn't want him walking the corridors shouting his mouth off and disrupting it. Not that he would, but Nichols gladly took the money and the limited access he still had as a consultant to the archives which aided his continued search for Randall and his kind. And of course, for her. Sofia.

 

But first those who had long mistrusted Nichols and his colleagues in the archives had to have their day, if not in court, in inquest. And oh how they loved it, reducing his reputation to tatters. The whole inquest into the fateful events that took place in that nondescript house in the north of England lasted little over a week, but it seemed like months to Nichols and on more than one occasion he thought he would drown in all their bullshit.

 

Peter Nichols knew the score and took it all. He was blamed out of hand for the death of Jeffrey Sullivan and the near fatal wounding’s of Peroni and Lewis, not to mention of course what had happened to Larry McCulloch. He took the accusations and the thinly veiled threats and even a bogus psychiatric report which labelled him borderline paranoid.

 

Throughout all this there was unsurprisingly no mention of his repeated requests to be allowed to take one of Mynor's poems with him to England (apparently Nichols found out later that the requested, written in triplicate, was still gathering dust in Cardinal Binoffis’,” in tray). Or that he had been repeatedly refused permission to take Larry to the Vatican where he could be better protected.

 

After the inquest was over, the three Cardinal panel had concluded that Peter Nichols (formally Father Nichols) was nothing more than a paranoid malcontent with his head full of soul collectors and demon creations (none of which they smugly noted had ever been proved). The mysterious Randall character was simply a mob Hitman, who had easily overwhelmed Peroni, Lewis and Sullivan and it was a miracle that two of them had survived. (The only point Nichols agreed with.) An assault, they pointed out, that Nichols alone had emerged from unscathed.

The whole investigation had been a travesty, which came as no surprise, a whitewash of ass covering and scapegoating. Nichols was an easy patsy, and despite his growing hated of the establishment he had over half his life serving, deep down he could not shake the feeling that for all their bullshit, on the count that he was ultimately responsible for Jeff's death and Larry's betrayal, they were right, and it was eating him up inside.

 

But he chose to use that guilt, which could have consumed him, to spur him on all the more. It was the fuel to the fire in his belly, he would find Randall, somehow get his hands on one of the real poems and end the collector’s reign once and for all. Then move on to the others however many there were.

 

That was what had brought him here to Venice, although they were strictly forbidden to speak, Ania had managed to contact Nichols through a mutual friend in the archives. She had information he had to see. Both Ania and Lewis now worked directly for the Vatican under the ambiguous title of Research and Protection. They were now on the front line of this clandestine war, this wasn't news that Nichols had welcomed but next to himself they were the only ones truly experienced enough to know what they faced, and both were far less vocal than Nichols had been, they knew how to play the Vatican politics game so were left pretty much alone to do as they wished.

 

They were indispensable allies, as Ania now proved. She took out a brown file from her bag and placed it on the table between them. “Things have been quiet on the collector from since our little fracas with Randall. You know, I saw the CCTV footage taken outside the hospital he took us to?”

 

“Really?” Nichols sat up straight. “Anything useful? You know we never really have had him on video before, the odd photo, but nothing proved.”

 

“It didn't make enjoyable watching,” she said. “What with Jeff and all.” She opened the file before continuing. “But no, nothing of our Mr Randall. The picture just cuts out when each one of us appears, there's nothing, just a security shot of the front of the hospital, then static and when it cuts back Lewis, Jeff and I are there, cuts to static again when you appear. The footage was leaked to the internet, but most thought it was a hoax.”

 

“Yeah, I'm used to that reaction.” Nichols said ruefully.

 

She nodded. “However,” she slid the open file over to Nichols who saw two photographs. “When we were researching reaction to the tape, blogs, conspiracy chat rooms and the like. We came across one user’s search Pattern, which we linked to many of the cases we ourselves were researching online, sightings, unexplained incidence, that sought of thing.”

 

Nichols just looked at her blankly. She laughed.

 

“Modern technology, Father,” she didn't even realize she'd used the word and Nichols wasn't going to correct her. “Search patterns, it's strictly illegal, but we can tap in on what certain users are looking at online.” She saw his eyes were glazing over now. “We can see who's been looking at what sites, obscure ones, like those we look at, not the much travelled ones. Anything with word on the collectors, whether they know what a collector is or not, which ninety-nine times out of a hundred they don't. Most blame Aliens.”

 

“Those guys again,” Nichols rolled his eyes and took out the two photos. “And these?”

 

“We know the collectors and their kind often use criminal activity as a cover or support.” Nichols nodded looking at the photos, candid shots of two men, one in his early twenties, the other mid-forties, maybe younger. “The older one...” She scanned a page of information in the folder. “William Fraker. He has been repeatedly logging into these conspiracy sites, some very obscure ones we thought only ourselves knew about. We think he's been researching Randall.”

 

“And the other one?” Nichols asked.

 

“Charles Walker, Junior. His partner. They both work for a... Harry Lyne, middle sized Gangster in Leeds.”

 

“Leeds?” Nichols perked up. “That's close to the safe house we used. And besides, why would two criminal types be interested in Randall?”

 

Peroni puffed out her chest in pride. “We did some digging on these two. Strictly small time, mostly protection racket work. Until Larry McCulloch decided to turn Queen's evidence. When that happened was half the criminal underworld went looking for him, he had a six figure bounty on his head. The police assumed this was to stop him testifying. But we know that was only part of it.”

 

“These two were looking for Larry?” Nichols asked.

 

“These two were apparently babysitting a Hitman, who was looking for Larry.” She made inverted comma quotations 'Hitman'.

 

“An American Hitman?”

 

She nodded. “They're the ones who found Tommy Whitaker, and after that...”

 

“Us.” Nichols put the two photographs back in the folder, he suddenly felt cold.

 

“We have tracked the pair down. They still work for Lyne, but after Larry was killed, they were moved away to Spain, to one of Lyne’s few legitimate ventures, a night club in Barcelona. Lewis is there already, keeping an eye on them.”

 

A reward for a job well done, Nichols thought bitterly.

 

“Lewis is still on light duty, so I told him not to do anything...” She paused, opening her purse and taking out two plane tickets, one of which she tossed on the table in front of Nichols. “Until we get there.”

 

 

They call it a game, the collectors. And for so long it had been a game they have happily played with the odds stacked well and truly in their favour. But what would they call it when one by one they started to fall, sent kicking and screaming back to the hell from where they came? And they would fall, Nichols vowed as he and Peroni walked through the pigeons, across St. Mark’s square and to a meeting they both hoped would tip the scales forever in their favour for once.

 

As they walked, Nichols glanced down at Peroni’s large shoulder bag and couldn't help himself, he gently dug his elbow into her ribs.

 

“You don't happen to have a Mynor's poem in there as well do you?” He would have laughed but for the look of mischief on Peroni's face. Then she winked.

 

 

Game on.

 

 

 

 

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