The Harm Farm: Dying is too good for some people. Read online

  The Harm Farm

  Oliver Tidy

  Copyright 2020 Oliver Tidy

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  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form by any persons without the permission of the author.

  Oliver Tidy has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.

  This is a work of fiction. All characters in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to any person, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

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  Table of Contents

  Chapter1 Chapter2 Chapter3 Chapter4 Chapter5 Chapter6 Chapter7 Chapter8 Chapter9 Chapter10 Chapter11 Chapter12 Chapter13 Chapter14 Chapter15 Chapter16 Chapter17 Chapter18 Three Months Later Chapter19 Chapter20 Chapter21 Chapter22 Chapter23 Chapter24 Chapter25 Chapter26 Chapter27 Chapter28 Chapter29 Chapter30 Chapter31 Chapter32 Chapter33 Chapter34 Chapter35 Chapter36 Chapter37 Chapter38 Chapter39 Chapter40 Chapter41 The End

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  1

  Alone, Bruce Palmer left the pub. Light spilled out onto the pavement making it gleam with the afternoon’s rain. He seemed steady on his feet, despite having been inside since early evening. He stopped to zip up his jacket against the chill of the late night, and then took cigarettes from his pocket. The flame of the lighter illuminated his face in ghoulish relief. He swayed slightly. Cigarettes and hands back in his pockets, he exhaled a cloud of smoke through his nose and set off in the direction of home. Behind him an engine started.

  For Bruce there was nothing to rush for. No one waiting. No job to get up for in the morning. He glanced in shop windows as he worked his way down the cigarette and the street towards the only place still open. He dropped his smoke under the illuminated fish and chips sign, ground it out under his shoe and went in. The van idled at the kerb.

  Emerging with a polystyrene box of chips, Bruce picked one out and popped it in his mouth. He closed the lid and continued on his way, chewing with his mouth open to offset the heat of the food.

  Two junctions farther along, Bruce crossed the road and turned down a darkened side street towards home. The driver accelerated to close the gap and stopped sharply beside him. The van’s sliding door was thrown back. Bruce seemed more confused than concerned. His confusion kept him standing still. His confusion kept him from shouting for help. His confusion allowed the man in the back of the van to get a clean shot with the Taser. The barbs passed easily through the thin fabric of Bruce’s jacket and T-shirt to puncture the skin of his chest. He fell to the ground where he juddered and spasmed and made odd noises.

  Two men leapt from the vehicle. In an efficient and practised manoeuvre, they grabbed Bruce by his wrists and ankles and threw him into the back of the van. The driver slid the door shut, got back behind the wheel, shut his own door, engaged first gear and accelerated away. His accomplice slipped a cable tie over Bruce’s wrists and yanked it tight. He slipped a cable tie around his ankles and pulled it tight. He ran a double thickness of Duct tape around Bruce’s mouth and then slipped a sack over his head.

  Over his shoulder, the driver said, ‘Be careful, he’s been drinking. If he’s sick, he’ll choke on it.’

  The man in the back said, ‘I can smell his chips. Making me hungry.’

  The driver held up the punnet he’d retrieved from the pavement. It was still closed.

  *

  2

  Mr Granger shut and locked the front door to his home. Turning to face the world, he slipped the keys into his jacket pocket. The morning was bright and crisp. Not a breath of wind. He closed his eyes, tilted his chin and took a long moment to savour the fresh air. The low sun warmed his face. It brought him pleasure and a sense of peace.

  Mr Granger called for Felix, his cocker spaniel. As usual, the dog had dashed out of the house and into the garden as soon as the front door had been opened wide enough for his little form to squeeze through. Felix was a tireless bundle of energy, full of life and bounce. The dog raced around the side of the house in response to his master’s voice. Nothing and no one could ever fill the void left in Mr Granger’s life by the untimely and tragic death of his wife of over four decades, but Felix had at least brought the old man some companionship.

  The dog had been Megan’s idea. Mr Granger had initially been resistant to it – he’d never lived with a dog before, even as a child. Gradually, he had succumbed to his daughter’s persuasiveness as he came to believe she might actually be right about the benefits. Looking back, she had been. It both pleased and amused Mr Granger that Megan was often right, especially when she was righter than him. She had grown up to be a clear and logically-thinking woman, sensible and practical; attributes that, when combined with her many other talents, gave her a strength of character, purpose and self-belief to match the physical strength and fitness she’d worked so hard to attain. All qualities that helped her to be a success in her chosen career.

  Felix was a capricious pet. Consequently, his obedience could not be relied upon. However, latterly the dog had displayed a seeming willingness to please, providing there were no doggy distractions around.

  It was partly because of this that Mr Granger had begun walking the quiet country road to the village shop for his morning newspaper with Felix off the lead. Felix’s youthful strength and Mr Granger’s aging weakness and increasing instability also contributed to the decision. Mr Granger found it odd that Felix was usually better behaved off the lead than on it. On the lead he was constantly pulling and straining. The erratic and sudden movements of the dog as it took up the slack of his tether to yank the man in directions he had not been intent upon could often cause Mr Granger to lose his balance. More than once in recent weeks he had almost fallen over because of Felix. Off the lead the dog did not often stray far from his master.

  There was no pavement on either side of the lane Mr Granger trod to the village shop, just grass verges that at this time of year were long, unkempt and often saturated with heavy morning dew. The old man frowned as he reproved himself for not wearing his wellington boots that morning. The footwear he’d chosen would not protect the cuffs of his trousers from the moisture, if he had to mount the verge for passing traffic. These thoughts were quickly pushed to one side as Felix disappeared through a hole in the hedge at speed, barking loudly. Mr Granger heard a small commotion the other side of the hedgerow: the frightened squawking of some unfortunate ground-nesting bird as Felix’s unexpected appearance frightened it into hasty flight. Mr Granger marched on, mildly irritated and refusing to wait, calling the dog to him as he went.

  Several yards farther on and with a resigned and impatient sigh, Mr Granger stopped in the road and turned back to look at where he had last seen the dog. He shouted for Felix. Nothing. Tutting, he climbed the steep bank of the verge to see if he might manage a better view across the open field the other side of the low hedge. The verge was slippery. Mr Granger extended his arms to steady himself as he edged his way up the sharp little incline. His trouser cuffs were quickly saturated, and he cursed under his breath.

  A little breathless with his exertions, he made it to the top. Standing on tip-toe, shielding his eyes from the sun and craning his neck to see over the hedge, he called Felix again, this time using a tone he knew the dog was both alert and more responsive to. It was a tone he employed sparingly for those times when he demanded a quick and compliant response. It was a tone he’d used with his own children. Children and dogs, he often thought, had much in common regarding behaviour management.

  Mr Granger strained his hearing for the tell-tale sounds of Felix making his way through the undergrowth towards him. Instead, he caught the high-pitched whine of a vehicle in a high gear approaching at speed from the other side of the blind bend a short distance ahead. Mr Granger looked back along the road to see if Felix had come through the hedge and was trotting along the tarmac towards him. The old man didn’t want the vehicle – it sounded like a heavy truck’s engine – to come around the bend to be confronted by Felix in the road. He instinctively knew from the sounds of the motor that it would have difficulty braking quickly to avoid anything in its path.

  Mr Granger called again, a little more urgently. He flicked his gaze this way and that searching for signs of the dog he was suddenly fearful for. He looked towards the bend in the road and understood the vehicle was almost upon his position.

  Felix burst through the hedgerow directly under Mr Granger’s feet, barking loudly. The old man threw up his arms and let out a shout of surprise. He lost his balance, then his footing on the slippery slope. He felt himself going down onto his knees and his body compensated by arching backwards. Unable to halt his momentum, he stumbled backwards and downwards towards the road, arms now flailing stupidly, hands reaching and grabbing at nothing but air. His right heel caught in a tuft of grass. He felt himself falling out of all control.

  Mr Granger’s eyes were fixe
d on Felix. Everything about the dog’s body language indicated it was barking excitedly: its tail wagged, it bounced on its hind legs and its mouth was opening and closing rapidly. But all Mr Granger could hear was the sliding of wet, worn rubber on cold, slick tarmac as the local bus, running behind schedule and with a driver unfamiliar with the route, bore down on him to end his life.

  *

  3

  ‘Am I speaking to Mr Keith Edmonds?’

  ‘Who is this?’

  ‘A friend.’

  ‘A friend? I don’t recognise your voice, friend.’

  ‘We’ve not spoken before.’

  ‘Then how can we be friends? How did you get this number?’

  ‘It’s not important.’

  ‘It is to me. What do you want? Who are you? Are you selling something?’

  ‘In answer to your first question: to offer you a service. A service I believe might help to ease some of the pain, some of the suffering and anguish you must be living with.’

  Mr Edmonds snorted derisively. ‘What would you know about all that? Who the hell are you? Are you peddling God?’

  ‘I know about it, Mr Edmonds, because I’ve been where you are now. That deep, dark, depressing pit of energy-sapping despair and despondency. The seething anger at the injustice of an ineffectual and weak legal system. The knowledge that the man who robbed me of the most important and irreplaceable person in my life is living out his own life in comfort instead of rotting in some rat-infested hole where he belongs. I suppose, in a manner of speaking, God is what I am selling, but not in a conventional sense.’

  ‘You’re not making any sense. Are you a reporter?’

  ‘No, Mr Edmonds. I represent an option, not a newspaper.’

  ‘An option?’

  ‘Yes. An option. For you.’

  ‘I think I’ll hang up now.’

  ‘Hear me out, Mr Edmonds. Hear me out for Mary.’

  ‘Now you listen to me, whoever the hell you are, don’t you mention my daughter’s name.’

  ‘What about Simon Stone’s?’

  ‘You bastard. I’ll ask you for the last time: who are you? What do you want?’

  ‘I told you, Mr Edmonds: I’m a friend, and I’m here to offer help.’

  ‘Help? How can you help? No one can help. She’s dead. Gone.’

  ‘Not her, Mr Edmonds, you.’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Are you happy with Stone’s sentence? Do you think he’s done enough time to repay his debt to society? To you? Was justice done for you, Mr Edmonds? For your daughter? Do you go to sleep at night believing Stone got what he deserved?’

  ‘Of course, not. What that bastard deserves is to burn in hell for eternity. Death would be too good for that animal.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘Good? What’s good about it?’

  ‘That you feel that way, Mr Edmonds. You feeling that way means I’m right about you. It also means I can help you to feel... better about the situation. Nothing will ever bring Mary back, but there are things that can be done with the living to bring a certain… satisfaction to a man who has had his only child cruelly and prematurely snatched away from him.’

  ‘What things?’

  ‘Horrible things. Unspeakable things. Unbearable things. Things to make a man wish he was dead.’

  ‘You’re talking about Stone? Things that could be done to Stone?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why would you want to offer that, what did you call it, a service?’

  ‘Because you might be prepared to pay for it, Mr Edmonds.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You’re an intelligent man. I believe we understand each other now.’

  ‘Let me get this straight: you’re offering to kill Stone for me for money? You must think I’m some kind of idiot to talk on the phone with a perfect stranger about something like that.’

  ‘No, Mr Edmonds. As you said, death is too good for some people. I’m offering to make him suffer. Every day for the rest of his life. And we would make sure his life was long and filled with misery, pain and regret. It is part of our guarantee to clients.’

  ‘We? Clients? I don’t understand.’

  ‘For the moment, Mr Edmonds, it will be enough for you to recognise the service my associates and I are offering, and for you to consider it. I will contact you again soon on this number.’

  ‘Wait a minute. Don’t hang up. Hello? Hello?’

  The connection had been broken. Mr Edmonds swore and slammed down the receiver.

  ‘Who was that, darling?’ said Edmond’s wife.

  ‘What? Oh, no one. Only another bloody reporter.’

  ‘It didn’t sound like another reporter.’

  ‘They’re getting cleverer. More resourceful. Can we not talk about it?’

  ‘Of course. Are you hungry?’

  ‘Not particularly, but we’ve got to eat, right?’

  ‘Yes, darling. We’ve got to eat.’

  Ivan had been combing his hair in front of the mirror, listening in while his brother, Karl, delivered the familiar pitch. ‘What do you think?’ he said. Unlike Karl’s accent, Ivan’s was barely noticeable.

  Karl sipped his coffee, a look of optimism settled on his weathered features. ‘I think he will consider it.’

  Ivan was experimenting with his parting. ‘Good. How long will you give him?’

  ‘The usual: a few hours.’ Karl switched his attention to his computer. ‘We’re going to have another vacancy, sooner than expected.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Ten.’

  ‘Ten? He looked all right this morning.’

  Karl gave his brother and business partner a knowing look.

  Ivan said, ‘I mean, all right all things considered. Not dying.’

  ‘His sponsor’s lost her stomach for the process. She wants him terminated.’

  Understanding dawned for Ivan. He tucked the comb into his back pocket and sat down and put his feet up on the desk to admire his new trainers. ‘It happens. We know that. They start off all I want that bastard to suffer every day for the next twenty years and then after a while they don’t want any part of it. They can’t handle it.’

  ‘Ironic, is it not?’ said Karl. ‘They sponsor these people because they can’t sleep at night, believing they got away with their heinous crimes, and after a while they can’t sleep at night knowing what they’re going through here.’

  Ivan said, ‘And that’s where we’ve got them. Isn’t human behaviour wonderful?’

  ‘And predictable.’

  ‘And profitable.’

  ‘Yes.’ Karl straightened in his seat and turned his attention back to the screen, signalling a change of subject. ‘We need options, in case Edmonds lets us down.’

  ‘Got anyone in mind?’

  ‘Blakey, the child killer, could be out soon.’

  ‘I remember him. How long’s he been in?’

  ‘A little under five years. Time flies.’

  ‘I’m sure our guests would disagree with you on that. Only five years? That doesn’t sound right. What’s going on?’

  ‘It seems the court of appeal is going to rule a mistrial. He’s going to walk. A free man. More stupid policemen fumbling the ball. He’s getting out on a technicality.’

  ‘People won’t be happy.’

  ‘I’m counting on it.’

  ‘The authorities will have to help him hide. His lawyers will make them.’

  ‘Let them. It won’t make him any harder for us to find.’

  ‘How many did he kill? Was it three or four?’

  ‘Four. Allegedly.’

  ‘How many of them could afford us?’

  ‘Perhaps two.’

  ‘Are we approaching both?’

  ‘I will approach all four. Money is not something that matters to grieving parents. And we could do with another gold standard guest.’

  ‘And after that? Any more in the pipeline?’

  ‘One thing we should have all learned by now, brother, is that there’s never going to be a shortage of citizens being wronged by the dregs of society and then feeling let down by the system. It’s a conveyor belt of frustration, torment, bitterness and hate. It’s as sure as the sun rising.’