Mr. Terry Pryce, 19, charged with manslaughter,
was acquitted today. Mrs. Michelle Boynton, 38, the widow of the man Pryce was
accused of killing, broke down when she heard the verdict.
Last June Mr. Geoff Boynton, 42, objected to
Pryce damaging his garden fence with a screwdriver. Pryce allegedly became
abusive and stabbed Mr. Boynton in the chest five times. Mrs. Boynton beat off
Pryce with a garden rake and later identified him.
After today’s verdict, Mrs. Boynton’s solicitor
stated that they would “consider a civil action or other alternatives to get
justice”.
– The
Alverbank Chronicle
Michelle Boynton sat
in front of the gas fire, watching with unseeing eyes the antics of the
characters in Coronation Street. They’d always preferred the northern soap to the gloom and doom of Eastenders. She could hear Geoff’s deep laughter echoing,
it seemed, from his empty chair. The clock ticked reassuringly on the
mantelpiece. Even after all this time, the same scenes kept replaying in her
mind; stark, frightening, yet unreal. And also the might-have-beens, the
alternatives if only Geoff hadn’t felt protective towards his property, their
home. Guilt stabbed her in the heart, as it often did when she woke in the
early hours of the morning.
In the blue light from
the television set, her plain features appeared attractive, the high cheekbones
pronounced with shadows, her big eyes glistening, reflecting the red of the
fire. But there was nobody to see her. The curtains were drawn, and there was
no one to caress her curling, shoulder-length red hair.
Tears rolled over her
cheeks, but she didn’t notice them. Before that terrible day in June, when life
was normal, she had been amused by the soap opera, her thick lips broadening
into a laugh. But the nights were no longer normal. They probably never would
be, ever again.
Michelle’s stomach
rumbled emptily. Apart from toast at breakfast, she hadn’t eaten all day.
As the advertisements
came on, she got up, walked into the kitchen and put on the kettle.
There was a dull ache,
deep in her heart, and no Rennies would ease it. She rubbed her chest idly
while waiting for the water to boil.
Automatically, she put
out two mugs – labelled ‘Geoff’ and ‘Michelle’. She spooned the coffee into
both. Only at the point of pouring the water onto the granules did she realise
her mistake.
Geoff wasn’t coming back. He’d been taken from her, killed by a callous lout who thrust his fist in the air when he was acquitted.
Michelle lowered the
kettle and clutched Geoff’s mug to her breast.
She was still relatively young, with plenty of life in front of her, yet the years ahead that had offered so much promise now threatened to be empty, sad and bitter.
She sat at the kitchen
table and lowered the mug, then covered her face with her hands and wept.
***
Larry Dawson and Frank
Ricketts carried the DVD recorder between them, the cable with the plug draped
round Larry’s neck. Even devoid of leaves, a broad sycamore tree by the double
garden gate still cast deep shadows over them. Nearby was a pile of sand and
brick rubble from a half-completed house extension. Frank’s Commer van was
parked a few yards further down the Crescent.
“Have we got time to
go back, d’you reckon?” whispered Frank, his breath visible in the night air.
“Nah, I did a quick
check and there ain’t nothin’ else worth pinchin’.” Larry was older and thicker
set than eighteen-year-old Frank, and liked to bathe in the youth’s adulation.
“Stick to what you know you can get rid of, Frankie.”
Suddenly a black shape
emerged from behind the tree, grabbed the wire round Larry’s neck and twisted
and tightened it. “I think you should put that machine back, don’t you?” said
the stranger.
Larry instinctively let go of the DVD recorder at once, trying to reach his assailant behind him.
Frank fumbled and let
go of the machine, and barked, “Hey! Who the–?”
The recorder, only suspended on the wire round Larry’s neck, slammed into his thighs and groin. A gloved hand wrenched Larry’s face round and rammed it twice into the bole of the tree. Nose streaming blood, his breathing cut short by the wire, he collapsed at the tree’s base.
Frank faltered and his face went pale. He turned and dashed towards the van.
Their assailant
released a bolas from a waist fastening, twirled it overhead then let go.
The weighted sections
of rope flew after Frank and wrapped around his legs, tripping him up.
“Christ!” Frank fell
headfirst into the gutter. As he struggled to unravel the rope, his attacker
ran up. Heart hammering, pounding, all Frank could see was the whites of eyes
in the black-mask of a face. The punch when it came was surprisingly swift and
knocked him senseless.
Their van contained a
phone – all the mod cons at their victims’ expense. The stranger in black
called the police, gave the address of the break-in, and hung up.
Their assailant then emptied some sand into
the van’s oil-sump and quickly melted into the darkness.
A short while later,
the police patrol found Frank and Larry tied to the tree. Labels from a
hand-held printer were stuck to a pre-printed card and pinned to Larry’s chest:
These two men burgled 4 Waterside Crescent. The DVD recorder has their
fingerprints on it. Handle with care. The Black Knight. In the bottom corner of the card was a black
silhouette of a knight with a shield and sword.
***
As this is a crime novel, it seems likely
that certain individuals will swear. I rationed the strong swearing to four
instances.
I’ve deliberately not referred to the
vigilante as either ‘he’ or ‘she’ at this stage, which presents its own minor
problems in description, since I want the scene to be visual to the reader.
[When an author writes about an individual whose identity is a secret and it’s
daylight without shadows, I wonder how they’d film that. The actor’s face would
be visible – unless it was always a back view…]
***
Sudden
Vengeance published by Crooked Cat website here
SUDDEN VENGEANCE purchased from
Amazon UK here
Amazon COM here
Smashwords here
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