Dark justice (third edit)

This is the third edit. I think I'm getting as close as i can to perfection, but i still need more tips. Thanks all who have commented so far.Dark Justice “We are gathered here today in remembrance of all those who perished in the first and second world war.” Said the commentator on television. “All those who died were awarded medals for having the courage to fight for our nation- medals and a place in heaven.” Henry Wells sat, watching the ceremony to remember his brother, who was killed fighting on the beaches of Normandy. However, at the mention of medals, other memories flooded the eighty-five year-old’s mind; those of his fighter pilot comrade, Godfrey Antov- a half-Latvian fighter ace. He remembered Godfrey well- he was well-built, with curly black hair and a square jaw. He was the best pilot in the RAF, and received medal after medal. Henry envied the glistening medals, pinned to Godfrey’s “pompous” chest. He was deeply jealous at his success.  For this reason, one night, a plan had formed in Henry’s mind. He tiptoed out of the barracks and into the plane hangar. He took out a wrench from a toolbox and found Godfrey’s plane. It was a spitfire, the best of the British fighters. He opened the panel at the front of the aeroplane to reveal a complicated engine, with pipes and pistons coming out at every angle. He loosened some pipes and took out some bolts that held the engine together. This would certainly stop Godfrey’s triumphs. Henry began to slowly creep back, his heart beating so fast in his chest, he was afraid someone might hear it. As he slid back into his bed, a huge smile spread across his face. The next morning, the bell rang – the bell signifying that German fighters were crossing the English Channel. Henry raced out of the breakfast hall, with a sly smile on his face, indistinguishable under the slice of toast crammed into his mouth. Henry took one last look at Godfrey, who was starting up his engine before starting up his own. Henry’s aeroplane was a Hurricane, not as good as Godfrey’s spitfire. As Henry approached the German Focke-Wulf squadron he heard a Latvian curse from the radio. With a smug look on his face, Henry enquired through the radio. “My engine’s malfunctioning!” Godfrey shouted. Then the gunfire began. Bullets flew in every direction. It took great manoeuvrability to dodge bullets, something that Godfrey usually had. This time, however, the engine couldn’t take the kinds of turns he would usually perform, like the immelmann roll. He couldn’t escape the storm of bullets that tore off his wings and sent him hurling into the ocean. Just as Godfrey approached the water, Henry said “I hope you like the ‘improvements’ I made to your engine.” With a voice full of worry and hate, Godfrey bellowed “You son of a….” At that moment, however, he hit the ocean and died shortly after because of the impact and the water flooding through the canopy. Henry shot down most of the Focke-Wulfs that day, and when he had taxied his aeroplane he realised nobody knew of the ordeal he had done the previous night, or of the radio comments- luck was on his side.  Near the English Channel, near the mouth of the River Thames lies the rusted body of a spitfire. Inside, the pilot still remains, lifeless. The pilot was Godfrey Antov a forgotten fighter ace. In these rotten remains of the forgotten spitfire, echoes still raged. The skeleton was in an eternal nightmare, as his soul, still trapped in the final resting place burnt a passionate grudge at the betrayal of his former comrade. The moon glowed intensely that night and a single beam travelled through the depths of the Thames and reached the rusted plane. “heeeeenry….” The skeleton uttered within the waters, as his whole decayed body began to twitch, his claw-like hands suddenly thrust the cockpit’s Perspex, shattering it to pieces, freeing his body from his slumber and then his light, rotting body floated to the surface. The current carried him to the docks of London. His grand opportunity was at hand. He clambered out of the water and stared around with his lidless eyes. His mind was filled with so many questions and thoughts that, if he felt pain, he would probably have a headache. Then, a single thought came into focus. It was the time he and Henry were friends. They had escaped the airfield and gone to Henry’s house. They ate and drank in quantity. Henry had told Godfrey his address, and told him that he would live there for the rest of his life. Unfortunately for Henry, he had kept his oath. Godfrey smiled a skeletal smile. He began running, his wet, bony feet clapping against the floor; his cheap boots had rotted away decades ago. He approached a new street sign-Oxgate Lane. At 20 Oxgate Lane, He would find Henry Wells- the traitor.  Godfrey rapped on the door and then kicked it down. He charged into the living room, where the television blared loudly so that Henry could hear it. The room was empty. He was about to turn around to search the other rooms when he heard the door slam shut, and a key being turned in a lock. Henry had been in the kitchen, making a cup of tea when he heard the door being kicked down. When all was silent, Henry took a peek into the living room, to find the skeletal remains, wearing nothing but a mouldy leather pilot’s jacket. He quickly closed the door and turned the lock he’d had installed on every door, so that only he could access every room. He dialled 999, hyperventilating every breath. He was put through to the police.  “There’s a madman with a knife locked in my living room!” he lied, knowing the police would never believe what he actually saw. He gave the details of where he lived, worriedly staring at the living room door that was being banged by the living dead creature. The flashing of blue lights and the wailing of sirens had never been more welcome at this hour to Henry. There was a riot van and three armoured police officers hurling up the street. It stopped outside Henry’s house. The three constables raced up the drive and through the doorless doorway to the rescue. Henry pointed at the living room door and the three stared, puzzled by the roaring coming from the inside. The two policemen had a baton and can of pepper spray each at the ready, while the third, a policewoman, had a gun loaded with a tranquiliser dart. They opened the door to be greeted by a seemingly empty room. The lights were off. All except Henry peered into the darkness, wondering what was in store. Then it all happened at once. Godfrey had been hiding behind the door, but had done it for attack, not defence. He slammed the door in the first policeman’s face, then pounced on the woman with the gun. The other two began hopelessly beating the almost naked corpse, making an attempt at protecting the third officer. They grabbed an arm of the ‘beast’ each, forcing them behind its back. Then he was put in handcuffs and dragged into the back of the riot van. They quickly slammed the doors, hearing the banging and pounding coming from the back; Godfrey was hitting his head against the sides of the van. One of the officers talked to Henry, asking if he was alright, then quickly jumped into the front of the van. The three were squashed in the front, because none of them wanted to go in the back with Godfrey. In the back of the van, the banging had stopped. Godfrey was trying to plan an escape. He knew one thing for sure- he wasn’t going to escape with his hands cuffed behind his back. That was when the idea came to him. He used one hand and grabbed the other. He ripped it off his hand from the wrist, freeing himself from the handcuffs. When the cuff hung loose off one arm, he fixed his hand back on as best he could, but he managed it. Now his arms were free, he charged at the doors at the back of the van, which flew open, letting him escape. He wasn’t sure where he was. Perhaps it would be better to take a look from that rooftop. Then I’ll find Henry again! He thought. He crawled up a wall, onto the rooftop of a nearby house and looked around. He spotted Oxgate Lane, not far away- he must have been quick getting free. He knew that taking the streets again was dangerous; the police would be searching for him, so he leapt from the rooftop and onto a rooftop opposite. He knew he would get there soon. He continued to leap across rooftops until he landed on Henry’s. The lights in the house were out- Henry must have been trying to get some sleep. Godfrey ripped off the tiles on the roof until there was enough room for him to enter. He ripped off the layers of insulation and landed in the attic. His fists clenched, he continuously pounded the wooden floor until the dim bedroom was in view. Just as he was about to enter the bedroom, he noticed the lamp turn on. He grinned a skeletal smile, then jumped down. Henry was sat bolt upright, with his face much paler than usual, quivering from head-to-toe. Godfrey said in a decayed, scratchy voice with a Latvian accent “How fitting it is that it is Remembrance Sunday today, for you will remember this day for the rest of your eternal stay in Hell.” Godfrey approached Henry slowly, each bony step clunking against the wooden floor. Henry froze- he could do nothing to avoid his fate. Godfrey thrust his hand into Henry’s ribcage and retrieved it, holding Henry’s heart. Henry yelled in pain- he was dying. His life drained away. He slumped to the floor, with blood spilling out of his chest. Godfrey roared in triumph. Henry took one last breath, and ceased to exist any more. At that instant, Godfrey’s rotting corpse became inanimate, falling to the floor. His business was done. The moon that shone peculiarly bright that night now went behind a cloud, emerging at its normal brightness. The police returned to the house, to get Henry to safety- but what they saw was unbelievable. Nobody knows what happened that day-well, nobody alive.  Thanks for reading