Whipped Up

Chapter 4

FOUR

Colin Brace often spent Friday afternoons in the public library. He had never completely embraced new technology and despised the idea of seeking out information on the Internet. Instead, he preferred to scour through encyclopaedias, maps and other reference materials to find what he needed.

The librarian was a pleasant-looking woman of around forty-five, with a trim figure and sparkling eyes. One of the main reasons for Colin visiting the library was not only to use books but to see her. He gained a lot of pleasure knowing she would be behind the desk, usually with her spectacles perched on the end of her cute nose as she studied the computer screen. A little thrill of expectation always ran through his tummy as he bounded up the steps to the reference section. Today, however, she was not there, and at once he felt deflated.

“Where’s Miriam?” he asked.

The sour-faced replacement looked up from her work and frowned. “Sick.”

Shocked, Colin swallowed down his concern, “It’s not … you know …”

She gave him a filthy look and an emphatic, “No.”

He sighed in relief and leaned forward. “I need some books about Spain.”

“Geography section,” the woman said and pointed in a vague direction. He bristled, knowing if it were Miriam behind the counter he would have lingered longer, asked her to accompany him in his search, her scent filling his nostrils, stirring his loins. But this woman brought no such urge and so, without another word, he went over to the bookshelves and found what he sought. He pulled down several large books.

One other person sat in the huge reading room, immersed in a newspaper, and Colin had no problem finding an empty table. He put down the selected volumes and sifted through the contents.

The hours drifted by and, with the desired information gathered, he returned the books to their places and went out, giving only the briefest of nods to the librarian.

Once outside, Colin scanned the grey, featureless car park before getting into his old, battered Clio. He took a route out of the busy town and headed towards the river and an anonymous-looking brick blockhouse some five miles away.

The sign said ‘Her Majesty’s Customs and Excise’, the worn, battered sign echoing the tired, uncared-for exterior of the building. He paused and peered up at the closed-circuit camera before running his security card down the sensor on the wall beside the door, which gave a small sucking sound and whispered open. He stepped inside.

At a cramped desk, a pair of brutish-looking security guards nodded and waved him forward. They knew him well. Without a word, Colin went down the narrow dimly lit corridor and took the last door on the right into a large, gloomy, airless space, weak lights casting insipid pools onto the floor. As he walked on, sensors flicked on the ceiling lights and he stopped and winced at the sudden glare. The padded room, partitioned by a low wall with a narrow entrance between, was deathly quiet.

Colin stepped through the gap and peered down to the far end where life-size targets of various sizes waited, suspended by thin wires. Most were of men holding Kalashnikovs.

“Hello, Colin,” said a voice.

Colin squinted and saw Norfield, the armourer, emerging from a dark corner busily cleaning the cylinder of an old but dependable Smith and Wesson hammerless snub-nose. He checked his watch and smiled. “Aisle three, please.”

Colin took off his jacket and draped it over the back of a chair. He wandered to aisle three to a trestle table with several firearms laid out: two automatics, a six-round magnum and a .38 calibre Colt. A pair of earphones hung from a hook and Colin put them on. He checked the magnum was loaded, brought it up, and fired off four quick rounds.

Even with the ear protection, the noise was tremendous. As the cordite dispersed, he squinted down the aisle to the cardboard figure some twenty-five metres away. At four bullet holes, neatly spaced around where the heart would be.

Without a pause, he moved to the Colt, checked it and went through the same operation, followed by each of the automatics. His ears were ringing by the time he’d finished. He glanced sideways to find Norfield at his shoulder, who handed over the tiny snub-nosed g*n. Without a word, Colin squeezed off two rounds at another target. Then, he pulled off his earphones and gently put the g*n on the table.

“It’s untraceable.”

“So it should be.” Colin smiled. “It’s crap compared with the others.”

“Yes. But it’s yours.”

Colin sighed and picked up the g*n and weighed it in his hand. “When was this made, eighteen hundreds?”

“Nineteen fifties. It’s a good g*n which won’t let you down and packs one hell of a punch.” Norfield reached across and pressed a button on a small console against the wall. A tiny electric hum and the target drew closer on its metal line. When it finally stopped some six feet away, Colin saw where the two bullets from the snub-nose had obliterated the area around the head. “Nobody will be getting up from that.”

Colin grunted.

Norfield produced a shoulder holster and two cartons of bullets. “Not that you’ll need this many, I shouldn’t wonder.”

“I’ll need a back-up.”

“Sorry, Colin. The powers-that-be have been pretty strict about that. If you are arrested, all they will find is the Smith and Wesson. Nothing else.”

“I always have a back-up.”

“Not this time. Sorry.”

Colin shrugged, took the shoulder holster and put it on. Then he reloaded the snub-nose and dropped it into the holster. In a flash, he drew the g*n and aimed it directly towards the target. He grunted again and returned the g*n to its holster.

“It’s smooth and virtually indestructible,” explained Norfield, watching Colin moving over to where he had thrown his coat.

Colin pulled on his jacket and flexed his shoulders a few times. “It feels fine. Can you notice anything?”

“Nothing. Nobody could tell it was there. That’s one of its advantages. And because it’s hammerless, it won’t snag whilst being drawn. It’s a good g*n, like I said.”

“All right, I believe you. I still prefer a Glock.”

“That’s because you’re an ignoramus, Colin.”

“That’s because I’m careful. And that’s why I’m alive.”

Norfield smiled and moved to clear away the assorted guns from the table. He watched Colin shuffle towards the exit. An old man, knocking on the door of sixty. Yes he was still alive, but Norfield couldn’t help wonder for how much longer.