Three Times a Killer by Gerald Hansen
Release Date: July 29, 2024
Subgenre: Derry Noir, Crime, Murder
About Three Times a Killer
Excerpt:
He turned on the
seat heater, then turned up the radio to drown out the taunts, the angry roars
fading into the distance behind him. They’d flung something at his car. He’d
caught a glimpse of it in the rear view mirror, heard it splatter on the boot,
the trunk. He was worried about his car, had only had it a few months and it
was his pride, but he’d have to wait until he was out of the firing line to
check his precious baby out.
Tapping his hand
in agitation on the steering wheel along to an old Commodores ballad from the
70s, he scowled as a sudden fierce scatter of rain attacked his windshield. He
turned on the wipers, saw a peregrine falcon swooping down from the dark clouds
towards the field. Attacking some prey, no doubt.
He could
understand the protesters, of course he could. The top brass couldn’t, thought
those camping outside the gates, chaining themselves to the railings were
mental, but that was something he could also understand. The protesters had a
point, though he’d never admit that to his bosses.
He was fearful
things might escalate. That radical group had a reputation for being especially
ruthless, a bit unhinged. Many things seemed more important to them than
people’s lives. That might put everyone in the company at risk, including
himself.
You never knew
what might happen when two tribes went to war, but he hoped for less rather
than more.
As if on cue, the Commodores was followed by Frankie Goes To Hollywood’s
“Two Tribes.” He had begun listening to a streaming radio station that played
every UK Top 40 hit of the 20th century on random selection. He was
too young for many of these songs, but too old for the kids’ music of the day.
One of the activists’ caravans had been broken into last week. There had
been an uproar online. Were the higher-ups responsible for that? He didn’t have
access to that information; he was too low in the pecking order. He wouldn’t
put it past them; his bosses were just as ruthless as the protesters when it
came to the possibility of money being lost. For all the company’s caring PR,
in reality, it was all about making a profit.
Some house song
from the late 80s. Inner City’s “Good Life.”
Good life.
He wasn’t particularly thinking about his good life now, but except for
that one regrettable incident when he’d taken a momentary turn down a dark
path, he was really living one. An unexpected, surprising result considering
his misspent youth. Maybe he was the only logistics coordinator to have been
born and bred in the mean streets of the Emerald Housing Estate, the only one
the crime-ridden Moorside had produced.
Now he had a caring, intelligent wife he loved and couldn’t imagine life
without. Beautiful young children who were his pride. An important and
satisfying job, interesting as well. Frustrating but fascinating at times, and
the pay was great. A three-bedroom semi-detached house on the Culmore Road, the
posh part of it. A big back garden with plenty of trees, a conservatory.
The only
downside, besides the protesters, was the drive he was making now, the
half-hour commute from the Sperrin Mountains back to Derry, but he had to be
onsite. At least the drive was scenic. The Sperrins had been designated an Area
of Outstanding Natural Beauty by the UK government back in 1968. That was one
of the headaches for his company.
He pulled into
the first lay-by, got out of the car with the rain lashing down on him,
inspected the back of the car. A tomato, almost washed off by the rain now.
Relieved, he got back in and continued driving.
A flung tomato was harmless, but his mind went
back to the supply shed that had been set on fire. It had been put out easily
enough, though he hoped the violence wouldn’t escalate.
As he approached
the outskirts of Derry, the rain stopped. He’d tapped along to songs from 1954,
1999, 1982 and who knew what other years. David Essex’s “Oh What A Circus” was
playing now.
He and his better
half weren’t much for cooking, but on occasion, she surprised him with a
spaghetti bolognese or a shepherd’s pie. She hadn’t texted him today, but he
knew she was preparing for a big presentation, so was busy. If she had no other
dinner plans, they’d get a Thai takeaway, or maybe an Indian. He was in the
mood for a chicken vindaloo.
*****
He waved at the
neighbor trimming the hedges of the front garden next door to the left, then
pulled up to his house. His wife’s car, a blue Audi Q5 hybrid, was there in the
driveway. He was coming home a bit later than usual. Just outside Killaloo,
there’d been a hold-up with a flock of wayward sheep that wouldn’t clear the
road. A stereotype, yes, but weren’t those always grounded in a bit of truth?
Darkness was
descending on the street, and it was overcast, but there were no lights on in
the front of the house. His family should be home at this time. They always
were. Maybe in the kitchen or the back garden. The kids had a jungle gym out
there. Rain wouldn’t keep them off it.
He turned off Roy Orbison’s “Lana,” undid his seat belt and slid out of
the car, wondering if they’d order from Mama Masala or Saffron Modern. Mama
Masala had some boss garlic and chilli naan bread, fairly set his mouth aflame,
and he loved that. Yes, they’d order from Mama Masala, he thought. Unless his
other half wanted Thai. They’d make the girls some chicken goujons. His wife
had bought some organic ones.
Flicking the keys
around in his hand, humming Roy Orbison even, he approached the front door. The
awning light flickered on, motion-sensitive. He saw something small and black
on the front step, on top of the welcome mat.
He looked around the front garden, cast a look at the neighbors to the
right and the left. Nobody there now. A half-smile of curiosity on his face, he
stooped and picked it up, examined it. His curiosity turned to bemusement.
Who would have…?
As he turned it
around in his hand, the bemusement faded. He turned around and inspected the
darkened street. Nothing but cars lined up on the road and lights in front room
windows. Not a soul in sight. He felt prickles up the nape of his neck.
He opened it.
Struggled to understand. Then it hit him.
It was like an
explosion in his mind, a punch in his gut.
The ground under
him tilted. He gripped the pillar for support, his legs suddenly weak. He
reeled, his heart pounding against his breastplate.
A moan of despair
arose. He almost flung the thing to the ground.
Panicked, he
snatched a look at his watch. His mind was so distressed he barely registered
what the watch was telling him.
6:32.
He had to be
quick.
Still clutching
the item, he brought his left fist to his mouth to quench a wail. His legs
almost gave out as, hyperventilating, he made his way back to his car. He
scrabbled in his pocket for the fob. It fell on the wet ground. He snatched it
up and clicked open the door, glanced at his watch again.
6:33.
Tires screeching,
the car raced down the road.
It was the
beginning of the end of his good life.
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