Out of Reach Read online

  “The two fingers belonged to Steve Richards and Joseph Benyon,” Baker began. “Both of no fixed abode. Both ex-cons. Richards did a four year stint for GBH, Benyon was in and out, mostly for drugs. Nothing in the past three years, as far as the law’s concerned they dropped off the radar. Nothing on the electoral role, no bills, no phones, no nothing. All I got was a bank account for Benyon, which wasn’t much to go on. But then I noticed a standing order he’s got set up to pay a gas bill on a property. I checked out the address, and it’s an old theatre on the Streatham High Road. Only it isn’t a theatre anymore; it’s the First Church of the Eternal Light.”

  Baker drew Schaefer’s attention to a leaflet that had got caught inside the envelope folder. The folded document promised redemption, salvation, and release from mortal toil. On the back of the leaflet was a photograph of a man who Schaefer recognised. It was Shark Eyes.

  “Pastor goes by the name of Felix Obsidian,” Baker continued. “That’s your man, right?”

  Schaefer nodded as he studied the photo. Shark Eyes – Obsidian – wore some kind of cassock, his mouth was contorted into a rictus smile, but his eyes were still dead and inhospitable. Schaefer wondered how desperate one would have to be to attend his ‘church’.

  “So they’re not MI5?” Schaefer asked, seeking confirmation.

  “Nah,” Baker replied. “They got you, mate. Just another bunch of nutters who believe in a living god, end times, or a hollow Earth. Whatever crazy, cray-cray, happens to be fashionable.”

  Schaefer hid his embarrassment from Baker. Part of his desire to believe in the Collective and the grand conspiracy had been driven by his refusal to believe that any average man could have got the better of him. If there was a grand conspiracy that even had MI5 stumped, then Schaefer could feel better about having failed. But these were just men. Flawed, misguided, and united by their dangerous beliefs, but only men nonetheless. Schaefer was out of excuses.

  “Thanks,” Schaefer said, as he stood to leave.

  “Schaefer?” Baker began. “Remember what I said about not wanting to see you again?”

  Schaefer gave a slight nod.

  “I meant it. We’re through,” Baker said, before he turned back to his sandwich. Schaefer knew that was the last time they’d see each other.

  “One last thing,” Baker said, looking up. “What the fuck did you do with my car?”

  “It’s in Ross-on-Wye, on Chapel Street,” Schaefer replied.

  “And the keys?” Baker asked.

  “In the ignition,” Schaefer said, before walking away. He heard Baker mutter curses under his breath as he stepped through the automatic doors. Schaefer emerged onto Edgware Road with a growing sense of sadness. For all his flaws and baser desires, Baker had been useful in a tight spot. Schaefer would never have described him as a friend, but, like Noel, the man was probably the closest thing Schaefer had to one. Doors were closing. Walls were closing in. Schaefer could feel he was running out of time. He crossed the busy street and hurried back to the car. It wouldn’t take him long to reach Streatham.

  TWENTY NINE

  The First Church of the Eternal Light was housed in an old Victorian theatre on the corner of Hilldown Road. The high windows had been veiled from the inside, giving the building a sense of secrecy. A large red neon sign pulsed with the word CHURCH, and cast an eerie glow over the main entrance, which was set into a curved wall that linked the building’s street-side frontages. Two men stood outside the entrance. Hard, unwelcoming faces, and cheap polyester suits that shimmered in the intermittent red light. Schaefer had watched them for an hour, and far from being welcoming acolytes tasked with seeking new recruits, these men gave any passers-by who showed the slightest interest in their church the same unflinching, cold stares. Strangers not welcome. Schaefer recalled Leon Yates’ words and felt they applied here.

  Schaefer had concealed himself in a pile of donation bags in the doorway of a charity shop on the other side of Streatham High Road, and had watched a handful of men go into the building. No one had come out. One side of the building ran along Streatham High Road, the other along Hilldown Road. The old theatre was connected to the neighbouring block of flats on the High Road – no entrance on that side. When Schaefer had staggered along Hilldown Road pretending to be a lost-cause drunk, he’d seen that there was an alley that ran behind the building, and a padlocked fire escape. That was the only other way in, and there was no way of knowing where it led. Schaefer was going to have to go in through the front entrance. He just needed to be sure of one thing.

  A familiar car pulled up: the Mercedes. No Neck jumped out of the drivers’ seat and hurried round to open the door for the man Schaefer now knew as Felix Obsidian. The two doormen bowed their heads as he approached, but Obsidian didn’t even bother to acknowledge his subordinates as he entered the building. Schaefer knew what he was about to do was risky, but he didn’t have much choice. Obsidian had used him to kill Lomas, framed him for Noel’s murder, and was prime suspect in Amber’s abduction. If Schaefer didn’t act decisively, he’d get picked up by the police in the next couple of days and spend a good few weeks trying to prove to the law that he had nothing to do with Noel’s death. If he failed, he’d get a life sentence, and Amber would be gone forever. If he succeeded, and managed to walk free, there was no guarantee that Obsidian would still be around.

  Schaefer pulled himself out of the pile of bags and dodged the traffic as he crossed Streatham High Road. He stumbled for effect as he stepped onto the pavement on the other side. He saw the taller of the two doorman signal to his colleague to draw his attention to the approaching drunk. Schaefer staggered and swayed; his many years of being a drunk finally paying off.

  “Can I help you, brother?” The tall one asked, as Schaefer drew near.

  Schaefer whipped his fist into the man’s face with such force that he felt the cheekbone cave in. The short doorman was startled by Schaefer’s sudden, violent sobriety, and, as his colleague fell senseless, didn’t even manage to get his hands up to protect himself. Schaefer stepped in to deliver a ferocious head butt that smashed the man’s nose open, and sent him sprawling.

  Schaefer shot up the stone steps that led into the building and stepped through the opaque double doors into a grand, marble lobby that had seen better days. The lobby was at the bottom of a large atrium that went all the way up to a filthy round skylight in the roof. An ornate staircase ran round the outside of the atrium, all the way up to the top of the building. Schaefer was immediately greeted by two unfriendly faces. Unlike the men outside, these guys weren’t wearing suits; they were in jeans and t-shirts, and judging by the look of them, they weren’t hired for decoration. The squat black man and his white, skinhead colleague were covered in tattoos and scars. Both were muscled and looked capable of inflicting real damage.

  “Who are you?” the squat one asked.

  Schaefer reverted to his drunk act.

  “Wassur, mate. Yer pals ouuside, tell me yer gotta a pissoir,” Schaefer said as he closed in on the man.

  “Get the fuck out of here!” the squat man said, as he reached out to grab Schaefer. Schaefer was waiting for the move, and stepped inside the man’s reach to rabbit punch his solar plexus. Schaefer followed up with a fast chop to the man’s Adam’s apple, and, as he fell back, choking, clobbered him around the ears with both fists. The squat man went down hard, and what little consciousness he had left was extinguished when his head hit the marble floor. At the first sign of trouble, the skinhead had crossed the lobby and smashed the glass that covered the old fashioned fire alarm. He’d twisted the mechanism before Schaefer could get to him, and now the entire building rang out to the sound of an alert. Schaefer rushed the skinhead as he turned round, and smashed the man’s skull against the wall. Once, the eyes went glassy. The second time, hard, and they rolled back in their sockets. Schaefer let the big man drop.

  Schaefer heard noise echo around the atrium, and stepped back to look at the staircase above him.
He could see the shadows of activity on the landings above him, and heard the sound of running footsteps. At the top of the building, looking over the balustrade of the very highest landing was Obsidian. Schaefer boiled with rage as he registered Obsidian’s self-satisfied smile.

  “Welcome to Hell, Mr Schaefer!” Obsidian yelled.

  Schaefer could hear the thunder of footsteps getting closer. He looked round the lobby and saw nothing that he could use to his advantage. He’d have to use the stairs themselves. The staircase was only wide enough for two people, three at a push. If he met them on the stairs, he’d only have to face two at a time. Schaefer took off his jacket and hurried to the foot of the stairs. He was halfway up the first curved flight when the vanguard of Obsidian’s horde came into sight. Six men. They sprinted across the first landing and raced downstairs to meet him. As Schaefer had predicted, the cohort paired off and came to meet him in twos. Schaefer just had to ensure he held firm against the initial onslaught. If their momentum carried him downstairs, he was finished. The first two were rabid with anger. One was shirtless, the other wore a vest. Shirtless wielded a baseball bat. Vest had a far more useful, but dangerous, short handled axe. Schaefer side-stepped and let Shirtless’s momentum carry him down the stairs. The bald man following Shirtless was caught off guard by Schaefer’s manoeuvre. Schaefer pulled him diagonally down, in front of Vest’s first axe blow. As the blade buried itself in Bald’s back, Schaefer twisted the screaming man and hurled him down on top of Shirtless. As Bald spun away, Schaefer grabbed the axe handle and yanked the weapon out of the man’s back. Bald tumbled onto Shirtless and both men fell down the stairs, and collided with the hard marble below. Vest was aghast to see the axe in his enemy’s hand, and Schaefer worked the advantage. As the man tried to retreat, one of his associates stepped forward and struck Schaefer with a short cosh. The blow caught Schaefer on the collarbone and sent him down. As he dropped to one knee, Schaefer lashed out, slashing Vest and his neighbour across the shins with the axe blade. Both men, buckled, and Schaefer stood to face their accomplices, who were trying to clamber over them to get to him. Schaefer kneed Vest in the face and dug his axe into the shoulder of a man wielding what looked like a chair leg. Chair went down, tumbling over Vest, and sending both men hurtling towards to bottom of the stairs. In one fluid motion, Schaefer stepped out of their way, wheeled round and struck the next man in the ear with the flat side of the axe head. The blow sent him reeling into his neighbour, and Schaefer pressed his advantage, by pulling the neighbour forward and then pushing him down the stairs. Schaefer punched the man he’d hit with the blunt axe head and knocked him out. Schaefer heard noise upstairs, but there was only one more man left to face in this group. He had fearful eyes, and held a short wood saw in front of him. Schaefer was impressed. Not many people recognised the fighting advantages of a domestic saw. The weapon can be used for stabbing and slashing and the serrated edge can cause painful damage in a confined environment. It’s unlikely to kill, but extremely likely to incapacitate and maim. Schaefer thought that it would be very useful when dealing with whatever lay above him and he silently thanked the nervous man for bringing him such a useful tool. Few things are more demoralising than seeing an axe wielding maniac dispatch an entire gang, and Fearful Eyes did the best he could in the circumstances. As Schaefer approached, he made a wild lunge with the saw, but he had misjudged the distance between them and the blade swung through the air, throwing him off balance. Schaefer took the opportunity to hack at the man’s arm with the axe. Two fearsome blows opened up a fountain of blood and sent the man into screaming collapse. Schaefer picked up the bloodied saw and headed up the stairs.

  The first floor landing was clear and he met no resistance on the stairs up to the second floor. But there on the second floor landing was a group of eight acolytes, each armed with a club, knife, or some other handy weapon. Schaefer thought about backing down the stairs, but spotted a more advantageous option. He rushed onto the landing and engaged his enemy. With his back to the balustrade, he prevented encirclement, but he was forced to fight four men at once as he pushed his way towards the next set of stairs. He used the axe and saw to parry furiously, focusing purely on the defensive, until he felt the relative safety of the first step under foot. He backed up the stairs quickly, forcing his assailants into pairs, and then switched to the offensive. With two weapons and the slight advantage the stairs gave him in height, Schaefer was able to teach these men about hand-to-hand combat. He used the saw to scour the top of the first man’s scalp, and swung the axe upwards into his neighbour’s gut. As they went down, he swung at the two men behind them, using the saw to gouge out chunks on one man’s neck, and the axe to cleave the thigh of another. Schaefer backed up the stairs and allowed the last four to clamber over their convulsing, screaming colleagues. Schaefer sensed the danger at the last possible moment and instinctively brought the axe handle up to parry a blow from a baseball bat. Batter, a monstrous man, had crept up behind him and attacked from two steps above. Now fighting on two fronts, Schaefer did the only sane thing; he ran up the stairs in a crouch and hit Batter in the groin with his shoulder. Schaefer could feel the big man bring the bat down on his back, but he ignored the blow and grabbed the guy’s legs. Propelling himself forward, Schaefer tossed Batter over his back, into the path of the four men on his tail. As the five men collided and tumbled downstairs, Schaefer ran up to the third floor landing.

  The whistling sound told Schaefer to duck. A split second latter a razor-sharp sword blade skewered the space where his stomach had once been. Schaefer rolled and stood to see a short Asian man holding a samurai sword. The man’s grip and stance told Schaefer that he was not dealing with an expert, but even in the hands of a novice, one of those blades could be deadly. Schaefer lunged with the saw, and when Samurai parried the blow, moved in close, to reduce the advantage of the long-bladed weapon. Samurai punched Schaefer in the face, bloodying his nose, but Schaefer was not about to allow himself to be forced back. He stood his ground and took another dizzying punch. When Samurai brought his fist up for a third, Schaefer raise the axe and held it in front of his face. Samurai split his fist open on the blade of the axe, and keeled over in agony. Schaefer put him out of his misery by cracking him on the back of the head with the flat side of the axe. Schaefer picked up the dropped sword and turned to confront Batter and his four colleagues, who had recovered their senses and made it to the third floor. Baseball bats, clubs and knives were no match for a samurai sword in the hands of someone vaguely proficient. Schaefer moved through the men like a vengeful scythe through errant grass, opening up flesh in their arms, legs and torsos. In less than a minute five men lay bleeding and crying at his feet.

  Schaefer ran up the stairs towards the fourth floor. He was sweating profusely and out of breath, but felt as though he could take on another army of these fiends. He was close, so close to finding her and the hope mixed with the adrenalin that coursed through his body to give him a super heroic euphoria. He didn’t even skip a step when he saw No Neck at the top of the stairs. The man held an Ingram MAC-10 that had been fitted with a large suppressor. Schaefer heard a quiet series of pops and saw the muzzle light up. The bullets thudded into the wall by his head. Schaefer recognised the warning shot, but was in no mood to heed it. He charged up the final few stairs and hurled his sword at No Neck. The deadly blade spun through the air, but the big man dodged it. Schaefer hadn’t intended to hit him, merely distract him while he covered the ground that separated them. Schaefer barrelled into No Neck and kept pushing until he felt the butt of the MAC-10 crack against his neck. Schaefer stood up rapidly and caught No Neck on the chin, sending the man’s head flailing back wildly. Schaefer punched him in the temple and heel kicked him in the knee, snapping it. As the big man fell, Schaefer delivered a powerful right cross to his face. With No Neck out cold, Schaefer picked up the MAC-10 and the samurai sword and headed for the double doors on the other side of the landing. Schaefer pulled one of the tarnishe
d brass handles and stepped inside.

  THIRTY

  Schaefer entered what had once been the technical lighting control room. Observation windows set into the far wall offered a view of the main auditorium. The control panels and lighting equipment were long gone, replaced by a large double bed, a sofa and screened dressing area. Candles burned around an altar area that was set against the left wall. A carved relief of the mandala that had plagued Schaefer’s thoughts was surrounded by other occult images. A goat’s skull lay on the floor, surrounded by dead weeds. Schaefer looked up and saw a large painting of the mandala on the ceiling. There was no doubt in his mind that Obsidian was connected to Amber’s kidnapping. The man stepped out of the shadows and stood before him in a black and red satin robe that matched the sheets on the bed.

  “You truly are a thing of beauty,” Obsidian said calmly. “Come in, we have much to do.”

  Schaefer stepped forward, brandishing the samurai sword.

  “You are going to tell me everything you know about my daughter,” Schaefer said.

  Obsidian unmoved by Schaefer’s threat, simply smiled.

  “Like so many in the world, you are chasing an illusion,” Obsidian said. “You want your daughter, and that is understandable. But she is not what you need. What you need is the truth. Only then can you set yourself free.”

  “I didn’t come here to talk riddles. You’re going to tell me where she is,” Schaefer countered. “One way or another.”

  “What are you going to do to me, Mr Schaefer?” He asked. “What are you going to do, that I have not done to myself already?”

  Obsidian opened his robe and allowed it to drop to the floor, revealing his naked body. Schaefer had never seen such extensive scarring. Below the neck, Obsidian was a hideous mess of disfigured tissue. His torso, arms and legs all bore the evidence of horrific wounds with whips, knives, bullets, razors and other implements that Schaefer could not even guess at. Most disturbing of all was that Obsidian had been roughly castrated and dismembered. A ragged stump was all that remained of his reproductive organs. Whether self-inflicted or not, Obsidian had suffered through the most tremendous evil, and wore his history as a testament to his warped faith.