Free Brothers in Blood by David Stuart Davies Page A

the snarling rotten teeth. Terrier-like the man shook his victim violently as he began to throttle him. Russell started to choke and he knew he was in danger of losing consciousness. As his vision began to fade, he summoned up all his energy to thrust his knife hard into his assailant’s stomach.
    This action had an instant effect. The man gave a roar, a strange mixture of pain and fury, and releasing his hold of Russell’s throat, he staggered backwards. As he did so, Russell snatched up the discarded whisky bottle and brought it down with great force on the back of the man’s head. He crumpled to the ground and lay still.
    Russell and Alex stared down at the derelict, their bodies heaving and their minds awhirl. They were joined by Laurence who was dabbing his forehead with his handkerchief. Suddenly he began laughing, a rich, natural fulsome laugh. The other two stared at him in surprise.
    ‘Well,’ said Laurence, containing his merriment, ‘that was an interesting divertissement , was it not? Two for the price of one.’
    Neither Russell nor Alex seemed to share Laurence’s amusement. They saw the incident for what it was: a very dangerous close call.
    ‘Now let’s get the hell out of here,’ said Alex, looking around nervously, wondering if there were any other strangers lurking in the shadows ready to pounce.
    Laurence nodded. ‘Good idea, but first we must commit our friends to their watery grave.’
    Without speaking, they tipped the bodies of their victims into the dark silent waters of the river and watched them sink slowly below the murky surface and then flung their knives after them.
    ‘And now a drink, I think, gentlemen. We have earned it,’ announced Laurence with a grin, still using his Brummy accent.

TWELVE
    1984
    Russell took a sip of the ice cold gin and tonic and then relaxed back into the inadequate folds of the garden lounger, closing his eyes and surrendering himself to the warm summer sun. His mind wandered back to the incident on the river bank a year ago. At this distance the panic and sense of danger had subsided completely and he viewed it merely as an exciting adventure. He remembered it now with affection and amusement, an unexpected bonus to their night’s activities. The thought that one of them could have been injured or worse no longer crossed his mind. Instead he focused on the killing of the girl, the tart, the sack of flesh in a dress. He ran the images in slow motion in his mind. In particular, he focused on the blood spurting from her throat. It was an erotic image and as it rippled in his brain, he felt stirrings at his crotch. The sensation pleased him, but he banished the image before it roused him further.
    Oh, but it had been good. It was the last time he had really smiled.
    He tried to turn his mind to other things. It was Friday again, the end of another fraught and tedious week, and the freedom of two whole days away from the hell hole where he worked beckoned. For him it was just a brief, occasional respite from the reality of his dull, tense existence. He’d been warned by many, not least Laurence, that he would regret going into teaching. Forget the long holidays and the supposedly short hours, he had been told. Think about the pressure, the constant battle with young savages, the preparation and marking and the increasing burden of paperwork, he had been told. But he had ignored the warnings.
    With a sudden movement he drained his glass. The surge of cold alcohol pleased him. Its anaesthetic properties were beginning to work. With this prospect in mind, he padded back into the kitchen and poured himself another double and returned to the lounger determined to fill his mind with pleasant thoughts. It would not be an easy task, he accepted, as he sipped his gin greedily. Much of life bored him or filled him with disdain. It always had, of course. He really believed that he had a limited capacity to be happy. To a large extent this was due to his inability to