Catch The Stinger, Before It Stings You! Read online

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  CATCH THE STINGER, BEFORE IT STINGS YOU!

  by E.R. Pomeransky

  Copyright 2015 by E.R. Pomeransky

  All rights reserved

  Cover design by Laura Roth

  This book or parts thereof may not be reproduced in any form, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or otherwise—without prior written permission of the publisher, except as provided by United States of America copyright law.

  Published by Creative Texts Publishers

  PO Box 50

  Barto, PA 19504

  www.creativetexts.com

  The following is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual names, persons, businesses, and incidents is strictly coincidental. Locations are used only in the general sense and do not represent the real place in actuality.

  ISBN: 978-0-692-54892-9

  CATCH THE STINGER,

  BEFORE IT STINGS YOU!

  by

  E.R. Pomeransky

  I dedicate this book to

  the people of Cornwall

  CHAPTER ONE

  The pilot of the Hercules C-130 had no interest in human misery, as he flew towards the Horn of Africa on that April morning in 1998. The half a dozen or so men sitting back in the fuselage were playing cards, surrounded by empty cans of lager. Rough looking men, unshaven, scarred faces; as if they had seen the battleground of life upside down and inside out. A couple of teenage boys sat in the cockpit alongside the pilot and co-pilot, in awe of their first flight.

  ‘Sebastian flew this same route, didn’t he, sir?’

  ‘Yes, son,’ the pilot replied to the youth. ‘And I flew alongside him.’

  ‘Did they ever catch who murdered him, sir?’

  ‘That’s still a work in progress.’

  One of the men in the fuselage suddenly shouted, ‘over eight hours we’ve been stuck in this fucking sauna, how much are you paying us again?’ He was a Brummie, heavily built, wearing only jeans and a vest that exposed LUCIFER scrawled across one bicep, a skull drawn on the other.

  ‘More than you’re worth,’ the pilot replied.

  ‘What did you fucking say?’

  ‘Better than the trawler or tug though,’ the co-pilot tried to defuse the situation. ‘At least we can’t get seasick.’

  ‘Why this plane and not one of yours?’

  ‘Because they won’t associate the drop with us, and because the boss said so,’ the pilot mocked.

  ‘I suppose the great Sebastian also flew with the boss, sir?’ the other teenager asked.

  ‘Yes, many times,’ he softened his tone.

  ‘Wish I could meet the boss one day.’

  ‘The boss is a very private person.’ Turning around in his seat, he shouted, ‘not much further, lads, we’ve done about 4,250 miles, only about another 50 to go.’

  ‘Hope it’s going to be worth it,’ the youth whispered to his pal, offering a stick of Wrigleys.

  Playfully the pilot made a grab for the gum. ‘Ha-ha. Anyway, don’t you two kids worry about it being worth it, there’s good money to be made. Do you know it only costs $2.50 a tonne to dump here? Elsewhere it’s over $250 to $1,000, not that I’m paying anything, of course.’

  ‘What are we dumping today, sir?’

  ‘Nothing much today, son, it’s a test run. Just a bit of uranium. But, there again, it is radioactive,’ he chuckled. ‘We’ve also got cadmium and mercury on board. But, soon it will be the big drops, you know what I’m talking about.’

  ‘So did Britain develop the chemical weapons, sir?’

  ‘Us, don’t be daft. It was the fucking Germans.’

  ‘Don’t let him fool you, boy,’ another member of the crew called out from the fuselage. ‘We produced the most deadly chemical weapon of them all, VX.’

  The pilot reached for a can of lager nesting in a cold bag. After pulling the ring he drank the ice cold liquid.

  ‘I hope you don’t mind my asking, sir, but is this legal?’

  ‘Everything’s legal, so long as there is money in it.’ The pilot pointed to the barrels lined up against the side of the fuselage. ‘They contain nerve agents, it affects the nervous system. Just takes a single drop on your skin, or even if you breathe in a miniscule atom, it can cause your lungs, heart and everything to be paralyzed.’

  ‘So, if a bit touches us, then we drop dead just like that?’

  ‘It’s contained, so it can’t hurt you,’ the co-pilot assured him.

  ‘But, having said that,’ the pilot tormented the youth. ‘Once it drops we don’t know what will happen to the Somalis, if it accidentally splits or spills. If it touches them in any way, their symptoms will be sweating, vomiting, even convulsions.’ He paused to change the settings on the controls.

  ‘What, a bit like an epileptic fit, sir?’

  ‘Worse, much worse. They’ll lose their sight, shit themselves, won’t be able to breathe and then they’ll die.’

  ‘That’s pretty awful, sir.’

  ‘No, not really,’ the pilot shrugged. ‘The country is already on its way out. They’ve been fighting a civil war for years, and then they had the floods last year, killed over 1000. And then there was the famine in 1992 that killed over 200,000. Probably millions, if the media could get their sums right,’ he scoffed. ‘No, we’re doing them a favour, son, putting them out of their misery.’

  ‘So if the boxes break on hitting the water or shore, the contents will kill the local population, sir, even the children?’

  ‘Who gives a fuck?’

  Down below, the turquoise waters of the Indian Ocean flowed gently towards the Seychelles, and onward to the Arabian Sea. Bordered by soft white beaches and tall palm trees, that cloaked the devastation behind the facade.

  ‘Right, lads, get ready to drop!’

  ‘You’d better get a hernia job then, ha-ha,’ a voice roared.

  The pilot was not used to men like these, lazy, rude and unprofessional. Back on base his own men were trained, would serve to the death without a complaint.

  Leaving the controls in the hands of his co-pilot, he hurried to the back of the aircraft and opened the ramp.

  ‘Ready to go!’

  He could hear them rise from the floor, still moaning.

  ‘Enough, let’s get this done and the sooner we’ll be home.’

  ‘So long as we gets us money, that’s all we care about,’ the tattooed Brummie grunted, as he grabbed hold of a barrel and manoeuvred it towards the opening. The others followed his lead, relieved to feel the fresh air on their faces.

  ‘It might look like Shangri-fucking-la, but it’s not, I assure you,’ the pilot lectured. ‘These waters are full of fucking pirates.’

  ‘What, Long John Silver, oo-ah me hearties?’ one of them jeered.

  ‘Piracy here isn’t about pieces of silver, it’s about taking hostages, and threats to international shipping with hijacks, and in some cases murder.’

  ‘So is that the plan for us, sir, are we to become pirates?’ one of the teenager’s asked, causing a roar of laughter in the fuselage.

  By now the plane had slowed down, almost hovering above the sea where children were playing and diving for fish.

  ‘Sir, there are children in the water.’

  ‘Close your eyes then. Listen, the MOD used to pay me to do this, and they will probably start again, once the media back off.�
�

  ‘You didn’t mention kids,’ the Brummie complained.

  ‘Look, lads, Europe has been doing the same here for years, so don’t take the guilt on your shoulders.

  Anyhow, the kids won’t be hurt, these barrels are sealed tight.’

  ‘Make sure they’re lined up,’ the co-pilot instructed.

  Grunting their replies, they re-aligned the barrels.

  ‘You know the real reason why they chose to drop their chemical waste here, don’t you?’

  The co-pilot shook his head.

  ‘For the oil, of course, why else do you think they are using the country as a dustbin? To get rid of the population so we can take it back.’

  Pushing each barrel out through the ramp, they watched in silence as the cargo descended like bombs, and then landed on the white beach. The few that missed the shore hit the ocean, exploding its contents across the waves only a short distance from the children. The pilot knew that when the monsoons came, any spilt gases and liquid would be shared equally among the nations.

  The men grabbed their cigarettes and lit up, relieved as much for the nicotine as for the fresh air.

  ‘Well done, boys.’ The pilot began handing out wads of notes to each of the crew. After counting their money they shook hands, more than happy with their pay.

  ‘When we arrive back at base there’ll be a hosepipe by the airfield,’ the co-pilot said. ‘You’ll need to hose yourselves down thoroughly, and then remove your overalls and place the washed overalls in a pile.’

  ‘Burning them?’

  ‘Of course, they’re contaminated.’

  ‘So what is the next drop?’ the Brummie asked, swigging back the last dregs of beer from his can.

  ‘Flowers I think, violets,’ the pilot smiled, now feeling more upbeat.

  ‘Why don’t your own RAF men help you, sir?’

  ’His own men fucked off to RAF St. Mawgan, son. Had enough of him,’ a crew member laughed. ‘They’re probably poncing about practicing for the public air show.’ ‘Will you be using my father’s violets, sir?’

  ‘Why don’t you also use the Kaleels’ lavender?’ the other youth joined in.

  ‘Lavenders blue dilly, dilly,’ a crew member began to sing. ‘Lavenders green, when I am king dilly, dilly, you’ll be my queen.’

  ‘Is that what you sing to your missus?’

  ‘You be a saucy git for your age, boy,’ the man laughed. ‘Of course I does sing it to she, but I always change the dilly for willy, ha-ha’.

  The pilot grinned. ‘Isn’t the song Sweet Violets more appropriate, the old one by Dinah Shore?’

  ‘You sing it to us,’ one of the men suggested. The rest of the crew joined in clapping.

  The pilot cleared his throat.

  ‘Sweeter than the roses covered all over from head to toe, covered all over with sweet violets,’ he began. By the end of the song most of the crew had joined in. ‘Which just goes to show, all a girl wants from a man is his sweet violets.’

  Suddenly, the radio bleeped. The pilot answered the call.

  ‘I’m on my way back, job done.’

  ‘Guthrie’s in Redruth,’ the voice at the other end complained.

  ‘Yes, I know, he’s been there a while.’

  ‘Why the fuck didn’t you tell me?’

  ‘Nothing to tell, so long as he is kept under surveillance. You said not to finish him off.’

  ‘You should have kept me informed.’

  ‘Okay, but I didn’t think it that important. Just give the nod and he’s history.’

  CHAPTER TWO

  Redruth was in mourning since the closure of South Crofty tin mine that previous month, March 1998. It was 3,000 feet deep and had been the livelihood of the Cornish town for over 400 years since the 17th Century, although tin and copper mining in the area dated back to long before then. At its peak Redruth was known as one of the richest towns in the world. Now FOR SALE signs hung everywhere, shops were being sold or boarded up and a large percentage of its youth were moving away.

  Henry Guthrie, known to one and all as plain Guthrie, was well aware of his infamy in the town even though he had only lived there for about two months. The reason behind his fame was not due to the fact that he was one of the only black men there, but because he had recently appeared on the front page of the tabloids for having been released from prison due to an appeal. Not the best form of introduction, but thankful that the murder conviction had been reduced to manslaughter six months earlier. His buffoon of a lawyer had then called for a mistrial and the conviction was quashed. But the memories still haunted him, the arrest, the beatings by the police and prison officers. Almost the 21st Century and nothing had changed.

  His first floor flat, a one bedroom hovel that should have had an UNFIT FOR HUMAN HABITATION sticker across the door, was next to a fish and chip shop in Green Lane, living off their chips most nights.

  Grabbing a packet of Marlboro from the bedside cabinet he lit up and inhaled a few drags; and then, lay back down on the pillow, oblivious to the stained mattress and damp bedding. The radio played in the background, Percy Sledge, one of his mother’s favourites.

  ‘When a man loves a woman, can’t keep his mind on nothing else…’ He sang along to the words, thinking back to Stella’s funeral, surprised that the authorities had let him attend. His mother said it was lucky they had no kids, but he did not feel so lucky.

  ‘Look at you, six foot three, good looking, like a young Cassius,’ she had said, as they had walked away from the graveside. ‘Not many girls could deny a sexy Essex boy. You’re only 39 years old, you’ll meet someone else.’ But he had no desire to meet anyone else, still sleeping with her photo under his pillow, his beautiful, beloved Stella.

  Despite his efforts he had no idea where her post-mortem had taken place, probably done in Antwerp, he surmised. What did not make sense was, why the man who had killed her had not also killed him. If only the coin they had tossed had landed in her favour, she would still be alive. But, the year inside had given him time to grieve, his mind not as numb, his heart not as fractured. Now he could concentrate on finding her killer, and he would find him, of that he was certain.

  Peering out of the bedroom window, he glimpsed the distant outline of Carn Brea Hill rising up through the thick morning mist, overshadowing the small Cornish town. Rolls of steam were sweeping down the rugged side of the brae, blanketing the gypsy encampment below. Once a Neolithic settlement, it was now crowned with a medieval castle and 19th Century monument to Lord Francis Basset. Perhaps he would climb to the top some day and enjoy the views.

  Flicking his cigarette ash onto the neighbours blue striped canopy, he liked to observe the customers below who queued for their lunch and supper. Today in the queue − a couple of young mums wanting to silence their kids with a bag of chips, teenagers in school uniform, and half a dozen workmen in overalls. He could also see his Harley parked over the road.

  The smells from the fried, vinegary food rose up into the flat. Yet, he did not care where he lived so long as it was in Cornwall, he had his reasons.

  Deciding that it was time to get ready, he headed off to the shower. It felt good to be able to wash whenever he chose, even if it was in a rusty closet that sprayed tepid water.

  Ten minutes later, dripping his way across the worn, brown, bedroom carpet, he caught sight of his reflection in the mirror. Shaking his belly to see how much it wobbled, over 17 stone at the last weigh in, that came from sitting in a cell all day eating fodder. His long black ringlets danced about his head as he shook, causing the water to run down his broad shoulders. Along with his dimpled cheeks he looked like a rock star, or so numerous folk had told him. The anomaly was his glassy green eyes, where they came from nobody knew, but they were a magnet for the girls. Although, he had never married and had no children, none that he knew of.

  Reaching down to the bed he grabbed his silver crucifix, kissed it, and then put the chain round his neck. Looking at his belly from a dif
ferent angle in the mirror, he caught the reflection of a painted wooden clown sitting on the chest of drawers, between the rosary and his Walther PPK pistol. His weight gain no longer seemed to matter, now moving away from the mirror towards the window, overcome by memories.

  Throwing the cigarette stub into the kitchen sink, he filled up the kettle and placed it on the hotplate of the small Belling cooker, better suited to a camper van. It did not matter, he had no intention of staying for long. Depositing a Typhoo teabag into a chipped mug he realised that he had run out of sugar. He used Typhoo only because his mother always bought it. She was a good woman, the best; raised him to be honourable, decent, and he had let her down badly. Not just with the constant lies, but she had envisaged him being someone great, a lawyer maybe or a doctor. Perhaps he should have gone down that route, saving lives, she would have been so proud. Ironically, his only motivation during his year in prison was the knowledge that he would kill the man responsible for Stella’s death. After all, his only raison d’etre for the past 17 years was murder; he was an expert at it.

  Sitting down in the torn, stained armchair, with a mug of tea and a Marlboro, he leaned back and closed his eyes. Immediately, images flashed before him, demons waiting in the wings, one after the other like a reel of film. Where were these memories stored, in his brain? What if his brain crashed like a computer, would he lose all the programmes and files, would she be erased from his thoughts forever? Yet, he knew that it was too late for regrets, they should have quit while ahead, got married, settled down like normal people and had a family. Too late, he always left it too late.

  Perhaps he would move abroad when all this was over. He fancied the Greek islands where he could sit theorising over Plato’s Republic. Maybe stand in a market place debating the theory of forms, or the elusive shadows in a cave. Kos would be ideal, he had always wanted to live near a harbour.

  Opening his eyes, he caught sight of the packages lying on the floor, delivered to his post office box number. This was the fifth package he had received, all still unopened and all postmarked: Albert Embankment - Vauxhall Cross. He wondered how much they knew. The problem was, there was a mole in the works, some evil bastard who had set him up. One thing was for certain, it would not be long before they found him.