The Final Hour (Victor The Assassin 7) Read online

  By Tom Wood

  The Hunter

  The Enemy

  The Game

  Better off Dead

  The Darkest Day

  A Time to Die

  Ebook short story

  Bad Luck in Berlin

  COPYRIGHT

  Published by Sphere

  978-0-7515-6568-3

  All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Copyright © Tom Hinshelwood 2017

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher.

  The publisher is not responsible for websites (or their content) that are not owned by the publisher.

  SPHERE

  Little, Brown Book Group

  Carmelite House

  50 Victoria Embankment

  London, EC4Y 0DZ

  www.littlebrown.co.uk

  www.hachette.co.uk

  The Final Hour

  Table of Contents

  By Tom Wood

  COPYRIGHT

  The Final Hour

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  One year later

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-One

  Thirty-Two

  Thirty-Three

  Thirty-Four

  Thirty-Five

  Thirty-Six

  Thirty-Seven

  Thirty-Eight

  Thirty-Nine

  Forty

  Forty-One

  Forty-Two

  Forty-Three

  Forty-Four

  Forty-Five

  Forty-Six

  Forty-Seven

  Forty-Eight

  Forty-Nine

  Fifty

  Fifty-One

  Fifty-Two

  Fifty-Three

  Fifty-Four

  Fifty-Five

  Fifty-Six

  Fifty-Seven

  Fifty-Eight

  Two weeks later

  Fifty-Nine

  Sixty

  Sixty-One

  Sixty-Two

  THE FINAL HOUR

  ONE

  The priest was a short man who was stooped in posture, making him shorter still, but he carried himself with gravitas, especially when he spoke. His voice was deep and boomed without effort. He was often told he could not whisper. A useful trait when addressing his congregation, but not so useful when hearing confession. He compensated by cupping his left hand over his mouth. It helped keep the sins of his flock a little more private.

  The confessor was already in the box, waiting with patience, so quiet and still that the priest almost didn’t notice him. He decided not to comment on the confessor’s own impatience. It was only right to wait outside until the priest was ready to hear the confession. No matter, but he would try to mention it at the end. Manners were a close third after godliness and cleanliness.

  He knew he should not, but he couldn’t help but speculate who might be so eager to confess. The priest knew almost everyone in the area by name and by voice. They were decent people, but ones who sinned in thought and deed like any others. As a young man he had served in towns and cities and heard confessions that had reddened his face in embarrassment or caught his breath with shock. Here though, the sins were what he called ‘baby sins’. People lusted, but didn’t commit adultery; they envied, but didn’t steal; they could succumb to wrath, but only with their fists. They were simple people and now he was old he enjoyed the simple life he had built with them. The priest was well liked because he relished his whiskey as much as the villagers and didn’t give them more Hail Marys than they could handle.

  The church was set atop a low hill overlooking a village. The village was located on the southwestern tip of Ireland, in County Cork. It was a small, isolated place, with a single bus service that made the trip to Cork and back once per day. A handsome village in the priest’s humble opinion, populated by those who loved the Lord and whiskey in equal measure. There were but four shops in the entire village, but also four pubs. The church was built in the middle of the nineteenth century and was still standing tall and strong. Larger than the village needed, but a fine building nonetheless. The floor of the nave was composed of tiles, aquamarine, white and pale green. The interior walls were white and the beams that supported the roof overhead were stained dark. The pews were simple and in need of some sanding and polishing, but where was the money for such frivolity? It was dedicated to Our Lady, Star of the Sea and Saint Patrick.

  The confessor said, ‘Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. It’s been exactly one year since my last confession.’

  The priest was intrigued by this exactitude. Most confessors spoke in general terms to ease their own guilt. A few days meant a week. A week meant ten days. A couple of weeks was a month. A year meant eighteen months. A long time meant several years. I don’t remember meant a lifetime ago. The priest was a precise man and respected others who were also precise.

  The voice that spoke to him belonged to no Irishman, which was rare. The confessor had almost no accent, if such a thing could be true. The words were well enunciated, perfect in pronunciation, but flat and monotone. An Englishman, he presumed, but a traveller who spoke several languages, and had lost any quintessential Englishness from his speaking voice. The priest liked to hypothesise when dealing with new people. Uncommon now, but it was a habit that had served him well in his past life. The Englishman was no doubt here to explore rural Ireland – the Ireland of postcards and folk songs.

  The screen that separated them offered privacy, but no secrecy. Through the lattice the priest could see the confessor, who was a dark-haired man in a grey suit.

  The priest said, ‘Tell me about your sins, my child.’

  ‘I have killed many people.’

  The priest was unfazed. ‘Is this some kind of joke, because it’s neither funny nor original. It’s one thing to waste my time, but it’s another to waste the time of this church and squander that of those who are in need.’

  ‘I assure you, it is no joke.’

  ‘I see,’ the priest said, and settled himself for what would follow.

  It hadn’t happened to him since he had moved out here to the wilds, but when he had worked in areas with larger populations he had dealt with the occasional oddball. Some confessors were borderline insane or outright mad. They confessed outlandish crimes, looking for attention or even believing themselves responsible. He had listened to many a Hitler who had survived the war and had been in hiding ever since. He had heard the confessions of many a Satan.

  ‘Okay,’ the priest said. ‘We’ll start from the beginning. Why have you killed people?’

  ‘I’m a professional assassin.’

  ‘Yes, of course. And how many people have you killed?’

 
‘I’m not sure.’

  Despite the ridiculousness of what he was hearing the priest couldn’t help but think about the fact he had taken the confession of real killers before. Those who had fought in the Troubles. He was still disturbed by the things he had been told.

  ‘How can you not know how many people you killed?’

  ‘I poisoned a woman recently,’ the confessor answered. ‘I’m not sure if she died.’

  ‘Why did you poison her? Were you paid to?’

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘We were enemies, then allies of convenience. After that alliance was no longer necessary, I considered her my enemy again.’

  ‘I see.’ He didn’t. ‘Why are you not sure whether she died?’

  ‘I told her how to beat the poison. I gave her a chance at life if she was strong enough to take it. It’s not yet safe to check whether she was or not.’

  ‘Why did you give her this… chance, as you put it?’

  ‘She convinced me I might need her help one day. She had already proven herself capable of fulfilling such a role.’

  It was a fantasy. It was a delusion. The confessor really believed what he was saying. Which was frightening in a different way. The priest hoped there was help out there for him. For now, the best the priest could do was humour the fantasist to keep him calm. The priest didn’t want to cause a scene that would upset those who were genuine in their need.

  ‘Do you care if she lives or dies?’

  The English confessor was quiet for a moment, then said, ‘If she dies, then I have eliminated a dangerous threat. If she lives, then I have gained a useful associate.’

  ‘In which case, if she does indeed survive, maybe you should send her flowers. But that’s not the answer I wanted.’

  ‘It’s the only one I’m able to provide.’

  The priest rolled his eyes and said, ‘Are you sorry for what you have done? Is your conscience heavy with guilt?’

  ‘No,’ the confessor said.

  ‘Then why are you even here?’

  The confessor was quiet for a time. The priest didn’t hurry the answer. Instead, he waited, curious.

  ‘This is something I have to do. Habit, or perhaps addiction would be a more appropriate word.’

  ‘Explain.’

  ‘This, here and now, is a remnant of the person I once was.’

  There was a neutrality in the confessor’s voice that belied the sadness of the words. The priest was intrigued as to who might create such a broken delusion, and what life they sought to escape in doing so.

  The priest said, ‘What do you hope to achieve with this confession?’

  ‘What do you mean?’ the confessor asked.

  ‘You don’t seek absolution. If you don’t feel remorse for your sins then this process is pointless. You have to accept your sins if you want forgiveness.’

  ‘And God will forgive me, no matter what I’ve done, if I only ask for it?’

  ‘Yes, that’s how it works,’ the priest said to bring the conversation to a close. ‘Say nine Hail Marys and ten Our Fathers and you will be absolved of your sins.’

  ‘Thank you, Father.’

  He said, ‘Go to confession more than once a year.’

  ‘I’ll try.’

  The priest smiled to himself. Never a dull moment. ‘And don’t kill any more people.’

  The confessor said, ‘I can’t promise that.’

  TWO

  Dying didn’t hurt, but coming back to life sure did. Rehabilitation was agony. The central nervous system cannot be shut down and restarted without consequence, she would be told. It was a needless observation. She had begun her second life paralysed. She could breathe. She could groan. But that was about it. Movement was slow to return. Feeling was slower. She could scratch herself before she could sense the nails on her skin. The pain was always there, though, but without focus, without a cause. Her limbs had a constant ache. Muscles in her back would go into spasm without warning. The faintest light could ignite her retina into spectral flames, yet darkness could do the same. A pneumatic drill hammered against the inside of her skull at all times, wielded by a sadist.

  You’ll have to get used to it, one physician would explain, adding ‘I’m afraid’, in some token sympathy. She had lots of doctors and specialists and consultants asking her questions and examining her notes. At first, this had reassured her, but it wasn’t long before she understood that she was but an interesting anomaly to them. None of them cared about her.

  It took a day or so before she could talk, which meant no one knew what had happened to cause her heart to stop. She had been dead on arrival, then unconscious in intensive care once they had brought her back, then mute and immobile when she had awoken. Because she hadn’t been able to talk she couldn’t tell them what had happened, and even if her lips and tongue worked again she didn’t know the name of the poison she had ingested. It was a neurotoxin, her murderer had told her.

  The doctors therefore had to hypothesise, they had to guess, they had to investigate. They loved that part. She could tell they were having fun with it, with her. She didn’t mind that, if it meant they brought her back to full strength faster. She hadn’t spent this long in bed since college, and then it hadn’t been to rest.

  ‘Did you see that?’ a disembodied voice said. ‘She smiled.’

  ‘I didn’t see anything. You probably just imagined it.’

  ‘Don’t tell me what I saw or didn’t.’

  ‘Is this about last night?’

  When she could talk she told them nothing of substance. Nothing useful. She said she didn’t remember. She said maybe someone had given her something to drink. That part was true, at least, and she figured they might have pumped her stomach and found traces of whatever it was that had poisoned her in her blood, or the remnants of it.

  ‘You’re very lucky to be alive,’ a young doctor told her.

  ‘I don’t feel lucky.’

  ‘Your heart stopped for over two minutes.’

  If you’re strong enough, they’ll bring you back, her murderer had told her.

  ‘Thank you for not giving up on me.’

  ‘You’re very welcome, but in truth the credit goes entirely to you.’

  I’m strong enough, she had told him.

  The doctors were happy to have her conscious and compos mentis, but she wanted to know more, she wanted to know when she would be well again, when she could leave. No one wanted to tell her, else they didn’t know themselves. Lying in bed, it was hard to comprehend the full extent of her condition, but she knew it was beyond bad. She knew she couldn’t be any weaker. Her hands told her that. It was a struggle to make a fist. There was a ball of iron in her grip that she had to flatten just to make her fingertips meet her palm. Her arm shook under the strain. She started to perspire. She gasped for air upon giving up, as infuriated as she was disheartened.

  There was some police involvement, which was expected. Two local cops asked her some questions but grew bored of her telling them she didn’t remember, she couldn’t be sure, it was hard to recall.

  ‘We’ll come back in a couple of weeks when you’re feeling better.’

  She wasn’t trying to protect her murderer. She wanted to protect herself. There were a lot of people out there south of the border who would be keen to finish the job he had started. As a living Jane Doe in a Canadian hospital she was pretty anonymous, but she had already been here too long. It was easier to stay alive when on the move, and if anyone came for her in her current state, she wouldn’t be able to run, let alone put up much of a fight.

  After a few days she could sit up by herself, and once she could bend her knees it wasn’t long before she could push back the bedclothes and attempt to stand. She acquired a lot of bruises. Hospital floors were hard.

  ‘You’re not ready to walk yet,’ a different doctor told her.

  ‘I need to get to the gym.’

  The doctor laughed, figuring she had made a joke.

  ‘Look at me. I’m atro
phying all over the place.’

  ‘You must let yourself recover properly. This is a slow process. Physiotherapy will come eventually, when you are ready.’

  ‘I’m ready.’

  ‘Let’s not push you into anything you can’t handle.’

  ‘I can handle it. I came back from the dead, didn’t I?’

  She was doing push-ups the next day – only three, using her knees to assist her – but by the end of the week she was doing five unassisted. She exercised at night when the lights were off and she wasn’t checked on for hours, which gave her time to lie on the floor in an exhausted sprawl before she regained the energy to climb – and she had to climb – back into bed, tears wetting her face because the pain of exertion was so bad. She used the pillow to muffle her cries.

  She did grip-strength exercises in bed, every hour, squeezing the metal support bars until they were left with handprints of sweat. She made herself eat, always asking for another portion, another meal, snacks, leftovers, ignoring the constricted feeling of airlessness in her weakened throat as she forced food down, ignoring the bloated nausea of fullness to make sure she consumed enough calories to stop herself wasting away, using both hands to clamp shut her mouth and pinch her nostrils tight to trap the inevitable vomit and swallow it back down so no nutrients were wasted.