The Icing Man: Chapter 4 Extracts

I awoke in hell. Roasting hot, unable to move: I could see only the silhouettes of countless prancing flames. In the darkness, two shadowy figures bent over me, one of them prodding and goading. I flinched, cried out, then struggled to sit up when suddenly the lights flashed on.

Finally my mind emerged from the treacle enveloping it and the dazzling effect of the lights faded. ‘God above,’ I whined. ‘That was a shock I could’ve done without.’ I looked about. Norma and Julian were standing on either side of the bed. The fire had been lit and was roaring away with a vengeance. Someone had evidently gone to the trouble of manoeuvring me fully clothed from on top of the bed to beneath the covers, then of tucking me in tighter than a baby in a papoose. ‘What’s happening?’ I spluttered. ‘What’s the time?’

‘It’s nearly eleven-thirty,’ Norma responded. ‘Julian called about fifteen minutes ago to say he’d got a tip-off that there’s a major rave going down tonight near Halstead. I was supposed to wake you, but you wouldn’t budge. In the end I decided to wait for him. Luckily he had the knack.’

Julian seemed strangely pleased by my sarcastic remark and smiled hugely. ‘Well, it’s up to you, Doc,’ he proclaimed. ‘Are we up for a little boogie-woogie tonight? Track down this Twister fella and get my Kathy back. Charlie Boy, he’s my contact, says it’ll likely be another week or so before there’s another one of these shindigs in this neck of the woods.’

‘Well, if that’s the case,’ I said stoically, ‘there’s nothing to decide. I’ll probably pass on the boogie part but otherwise, yes, let’s give it a try.’ Then it hit me just exactly what I was agreeing to. ‘Whoa. Just a minute,’ I ordered. ‘Who’s this “we”? Norma should’ve been home hours ago. Her parents’ll be climbing the walls.’

‘It’s okay, Dr Clock,’ the girl hastily explained. ‘I called them again. Hope you don’t mind. Told them I’d stay with some friends in Haverhill. It’s no problem, really.’

I felt a double dose of innate parental outrage and pomposity rise in my throat. I opened my mouth to sally forth, but caught sight of Julian giving me one of his looks. This particular one couldn’t have been clearer. ‘She was a grown woman; I wasn’t her father; so basically, sit on it.’

‘On two conditions,’ I insisted as forcefully as my position – sitting up in bed like a half-dazed porcupine – could command. ‘You stay close to Mr Stammers or me at all times, and at the first sign of trouble, you’re out of there. Is that clear, young lady?’

‘Yes, sir!’ Norma replied in a way that gave me little confidence that my role as surrogate father figure had been in any way successful.

I opted for nothing more than a quick swill to wake myself up, then threw on a set of old clothes considered by Julian to be the only things I had suitable for the occasion. A mug of life-saving coffee later, courtesy of Nurse Nightingale, and we were ready for the off. All we had to decide was whether to travel in the VW or the TR6. Fate, however, apparently didn’t fancy either choice. My companions convinced me that a classic car wasn’t the best conveyance to be seen in, even if parked some distance from the site. That left the VW, but the junk heap wouldn’t start. Out of time and out of options, I reluctantly unveiled the beat-up Norton Commander motorcycle and open sidecar I’d been tinkering with for the last five years. Despite the seriousness of our quest, my companions seemed to regard a late-night bike ride along dark deserted roads with cold damp air blasting in their faces as a treat. Myself, I didn’t catch the appeal. In fact, I couldn’t decide which was the more worrying – my passengers warped idea of pleasure or the thought of the three of us heading off to crash a rave. John Wayne, Ms Errol Flynn, and myself in old gardening trousers and shabby overcoat presumably as Lt Columbo, didn’t instil too much confidence.

By twelve-thirty we were in the vicinity Julian had described and, after a few backtracking episodes, we finally discovered the turning we’d been looking for. A few miles of narrow lanes, tracks, and an off-road experience later, and a huge barn loomed before us with flashing lights and booming sound billowing from its groaning structure. This was definitely the place and the rave was in full swing.

From our new position I could detect no sign of life in the second cabin, but in the first flickering light was definitely visible in one of the windows. After a few minutes, which seemed more like half an hour, still nothing had stirred. The only sounds I could detect were those of my creaking knee joints and a rather large hedgehog shuffling through the undergrowth. Time to risk a foray, I decided. As in all the best movies, I instructed my partner to wait while I tiptoed over to the illuminated window. Norma was less than ecstatic about the idea, but dutifully agreed to assume the role of lookout. The mission went well. I reached the side of the cabin, managed to get a foothold on the trailer and hauled myself up to one side of the window. My precarious position allowed me only a restricted view, but it was enough. About half the interior was aglow with dozens of burning candles. All shapes, sizes and colours; they were positioned mostly on makeshift shelves around the walls, but a few taller ones were packed together on the floor. In the midst of this eerie spectacle were two young girls, their arms tied behind their backs and their expressions fearful. A rope had been attached from their bound hands to the ceiling, forcing them to bend over. Both girls wore remnants of what appeared to be US-style policewomen’s uniforms, but the garments had been torn away or carefully arranged to expose their naked breasts and buttocks. The only items still intact were their hats, abnormally high stiletto heels and suspendered stockings. As I watched, a much older, pot-bellied Hell’s Angel reject swaggered into view. For a few moments he taunted the girls, slapped them on their behinds then whipped out his huge willie and started playing with it. Up to that point I couldn’t be absolutely sure either way whether this was a horrendous crime in progress or an example of the darker side of Julian’s world. But then the two captives suddenly grinned, looked at each other and began to squabble over who should have the dubious pleasure of sucking the mammoth appendage first. Two other men – one wielding a video camera, the other sound equipment – emerged from the shadows and, with exaggerated stealth circled the players, obviously intent on capturing all the action in graphic close-up.

Relieved that at least it hadn’t turned out to be the first of my conjectures, I couldn’t help but feel deeply saddened. What was so-called civilised society coming to when young people barely in their teens allowed themselves to be subjected to such degradation? The purity of youth, at one time held in high regard, had become polluted. No doubt though, in a few years time, the spin doctors would simply capitalise on the change and begin extolling the virtues of a new ‘tainted ice’ youth culture.

Ah well, that was probably enough hypocritical soapbox preaching for one session. In fact I should be the last one to criticise, my voyeuristic tendencies just having been unexpectedly topped up for the present.

Still no closer to locating Mr Stammers or the inimitable Twister, I climbed down and retreated to base camp but, to my horror, Norma had evaporated.

Norma and I exchanged glances, but before I could pursue the matter the door of the cabin behind us flew open and the flabby Hell’s Angel cast-off waddled down the steps.

‘Oh, Jules my love, are you al right, dear heart?’ the man crooned. ‘Those Marcus boys are so rough, but you certainly sorted them out. You’re so macho these days. The hat’s a mistake though.’

‘Who the hell’s that?’ I whispered, stunned that even with all the commotion I could have forgotten about LAPD Girls Go Undercover With Free Willie 2.

My neighbour stood up to greet his admirer, apparently not having picked up my question. The two embraced.

‘Toby Farthing!’ Julian exclaimed. ‘Haven’t seen you in a good while. How’s the bondage flick business these days?’

Unfortunately Toby wasn’t in the mood for social chitchat. All of a fluster, he hastily explained that Mr Hamilton wasn’t known for his peaceful temperament. Retribution for the attack on his boys was a given, and Toby didn’t fancy his crew being the only ones left at the scene when the seriously pissed-off Mr H arrived. Without further ado he bade Julian farewell, nodded to Norma, blew a kiss to me then joggled back to the cabin. A moment later the film crew transferred to the truck and started the engine. As the rig rocked away Toby stuck his head out of the window.

‘Sorry we didn’t help out with the fight, Jules, but you know how it is? An actor’s face and all that. Bye, Sweetie. Take care.’

‘And then there was one,’ I chanted to myself, still trying to come to terms with the concept of a gay porno actor disguised as a Hell’s Angel. I couldn’t speak for the others, but I for one was picking up some very peculiar vibes about the last remaining unit. Julian had confirmed that Marcus Hamilton generally only used three rigs. Two of same had already left, and Toby clearly believed he was the last. Despite the imminent arrival of the forces of vengeance, my companions agreed that the presence of the fourth truck/trailer was odd. No persuasion was necessary to gain a consensus that since we’d come this far a quick reconnaissance of the cabin was worth the risk. I could tell from their eyes that Julian and Norma would have agreed to almost anything if offered even the slightest chance of finding Twister: Julian, because the lad was possibly his only real lead to Kathy, and Norma because, in some strange way, I believed she was beginning to fear for his safety.

The cabin was in total darkness, its doors and windows tightly secured. Julian volunteered to work the lock so, while Norma and I accepted lookout duty, he got to work with a small penknife. No more than thirty seconds later the muffled sound of breaking glass set the hairs on the back of my neck jumping to attention.

‘Sorry, people,’ Julian whispered as we ran towards him. ‘I’m a touch rusty at the old lock-pickin’ game, but this baby did the trick just fine.’ The baby – a half brick wrapped in the young man’s hat – was something of a misnomer, but it had achieved the objective.

Since there’d been no response to the noise, it was safe to assume that no one was home, so we entered. Instinctively I started to fumble along the wall in search of a light switch. Thankfully there was one – the only question was whether it was connected to the truck battery. Again we were in luck. A couple of ceiling lights struggled into service – distinctly miserable but at least we could now make out the cabin’s interior. Apart from a table, a handful of chairs and some general bric-a-brac, the place didn’t appear to have been recently occupied. It seemed we’d wasted precious ‘fleeing’ time, and I was about to recommend a tactical retreat when Norma cried out.

‘Oh Jesus! Dr Clock, hurry, in here.’ The young girl was standing about two-thirds the way down the cabin, peering through a dividing curtain she’d drawn. I reached her side in a second, Julian only a pace behind. There, lying on an old-fashioned surgical table and connected to a bewildering array of tubes, wires and monitors lay a young boy.