Blood Money (chapter five and six.) (standard:Suspense, 2781 words) [3/18] show all parts
Author: Hulsey	Added: Sep 16 2011	Views/Reads: 2080/1806	Part vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
Continued.

5 

BALLYMENA 

Steering his Range Rover along the muddy country road, Terry Keenan
sucked on his lemon lollipop. His sweet craze had aided him in his 
fight against nicotine, and seldom were his pockets free from the 
various flavoured treats. 

Although Keenan had to catch a ferry to the mainland, he made it his
business to check on his new friend, Beano. Pulling up outside the 
farmhouse, the Irishman waited, until the final chords of Vivaldi's The 
Four Seasons had faded away before leaving his vehicle. 

Rapping on the farmhouse door, he waited patiently. Again, he knocked at
the door, this time with more purpose. “Hello, is anyone at home?” 

He strolled towards the grubby window and gazed in at the interior of
the cottage. The old, bald farmer was sitting in a shabby, stained 
armchair in front of a roaring fire, drinking from a whiskey bottle. 
Across his knees rested a shotgun. 

Keenan kicked in the door and focused on the old man, who seemed unaware
of the stranger's presence. A strong, musty stench of urine was present 
inside the cottage and Keenan grimaced. Yellowing wallpaper covered the 
walls and the bare wooden floorboards were soiled by dog filth. 

Keenan was standing between the man and the fireplace, his eyes focusing
on the shotgun. “You expecting trouble, old man?” 

The farmer took another swig from his whiskey bottle. “What do yer
fucking want? This is my home so why don't you fuck off back to 
Belfast?” 

“Where's Beano?” asked Keenan, spitting out his lollipop. 

“He's just a fucking dog, don't you understand, just a flea-riddled
mut?” 

Keenan looked towards the kitchen door, and keeping one eye on the
farmer, he advanced towards it. He pushed open the squeaking door and 
was overcome by a feeling of nausea. “Fucking hell! Holy Mary, you evil 
bastard.” 

Severed chicken heads covered the bloodstained kitchen table and the
skeletons of several unidentifiable animals were scattered on the 
kitchen floor. Keenan covered his mouth, watching the maggots feeding 
on the carcasses. 

Fighting back the vomit, he felt the tears streaming down his eyes when
he spotted a familiar creature lying amongst the filth. Beano was 
barely conscious, his front legs twitching erratically and his sad eyes 
sallow. Keenan crouched down and stroked the whimpering dog, recoiling 
at its emaciated appearance. The IRA assassin wept openly as his eyes 
focused on the dog's bloody rectum that had been mutilated. 

Keenan withdrew his pistol from his pocket and held it against the poor
creature's head. “There's a good boy. It's best this way fella.” 

The loud gunshot echoed around the cottage. Keenan rejoined the old man,
who had not moved. “Why?” quizzed the gunman? “Why?” 

The farmer's eyes met Keenan's. He dropped his shotgun to the ground.
“Do what you have to. If you think a human life's worth that of a mangy 
hound then God help you, son.” 

Keenan seized the collar of the old man. “Outside now, you sick
bastard.” 

The drunken farmer staggered to the door and Keenan pushed him forward.
He spotted a spade leaning against the rickety fence and pointed 
towards it. “The spade. Get it.” 

The farmer obeyed and turned to face Keenan, who checked his wristwatch.
“Because I'm in a hurry, old man, I'm unable to keep my promise. I said 


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