Lethal opponents… Buchanan, the courageous young yachtsman, obsessed in bringing down a psychopathic maniac… Stone, the depraved sexual sadist hell bent on pursuing his killing spree.
Tortured by the cruel way in which Stone took the two things most dear to him, Buchanan devises a daring plan to exact vengeance.
On the run, Stone speeds along his murderous track, criss-crossing the African continent, leaving body after mutilated body strewn like railway sleepers in his psychopathic wake The chase intensifies but after a terrifying turn of events the hunter becomes the hunted. A deadly game ensues with one out maneuvering the other. It’s kill or be killed.
Then an uncanny twist of fate intervenes, more unnerving, more chilling than death itself.
Tired and covered in grease and grime Selwyn Stone, after a particularly grueling day’s work on the outskirts of London, trudged the dreary block and a half from the bus stop to the bleak East End tenement that was home. Like any other day, after a quick clean-up, a change of clothes and sporting a heavy stubble, he would ‘fingercomb’ his mop of wavy black hair and head for the ‘local’. Only today the thought of that first pint of bitter somehow had an extra special appeal to it. He could almost taste it. Kicking an empty can along the well-trodden pavement, his spirits lifted as he contemplated the evening’s prospects.
For the past few days he’d been mildly flirtatious with the new barmaid. Perhaps tonight he’d give the darts a miss and coerce her into the back alley. She was hot. He knew the signs only too well. Despite his huge, hawk-like nose and crooked teeth, women seemed to find his rugged, albeit cruel, looks irresistible.
Brazenly he would undress them with his deep, seductive, laser-blue stare, then take sadistic pleasure in prolonging the inevitable. His stamina in the art of love-making soon had them begging for more. His conquests were legendary.
Rounding the corner he frowned. His street was cordoned off. Police were everywhere. He broke into a run when he saw a stretcher from the waiting ambulance being carried through his front door. As he pushed past the curious onlookers, a long arm barred his way. ‘Sorry sir, I cannot allow you to pass’.
‘I live here!’ The man of the house protested indignantly, his large frame heaving as he tried to catch his breath in the icy January air.
‘Mister Stone is it then? You’d better go in sir. It’s your missus… attacked some time this morning. She’s in a bad way, I’m afraid’.
You've set the scene very well, Greer. London's oppressive potential comes across very clearly.