IMPLANT

by Ray Clark

  A range of smells pervaded the building, comfortable aromas that DIY enthusiasts would soak up every time they entered. The fragrance of pine was the strongest, and beneath the frame holding the lumber, the excess shavings supported the fact. He could smell polish, and linseed oil.

  A sudden movement caused Gary to jump, which in turn made him lose his balance. From there he crashed backwards into a stand with dustpans and mops and buckets and other cleaning materials. The sound seemed louder than anything he had ever heard in his life, one that could have woken half of Bramfield.

  Mops, brushes, and buckets fell to the floor all around him, along with brand-named containers like Flash and CIF Cleaner. As he was about to move, one struck the corner of his eye. He lost his temper and yelled an obscenity.

  “Are you okay in there?” shouted Richard Jones from the shop doorway.

  Gary allowed the dust to settle before he quickly found his feet, desperate to keep the man from entering.

  “I’m fine, but don’t come in. It could be a crime scene.”

  As he glanced around, he realized what had caused him to react like a tit: the appearance of his own reflection in a mirror.

  Disgusted with himself, he straightened his uniform and ran his hands up and down his body, clearing the wood shavings from his clothes.

  Once he’d calmed down, Gary approached the counter. As he glanced down, he saw an A4 sized piece of paper. He could make out writing. He reached into his pocket and withdrew his mobile, using it as a torch. He read a message.

  Time to play a game

  The clock is ticking

  But time’s not on your side

  And neither am I

  What are you waiting for?

  Gary hadn’t the faintest idea what was going on, or whether or not any of what he’d seen was serious. It could be an elaborate prank.

  What happened next removed those thoughts. Gary jumped as an old-fashioned monitor on the countertop to his right came to life. What he saw caused his stomach to swell.

  He grabbed his police radio and contacted Cragg.

  Chapter Six

  For Alex Wilson, a number of things happened in rapid succession. A wave of pain coursed through him like an express train, so severe and so shocking that the end result was a loss of control of his bodily functions.

  As he fought for composure, he realized something else. He must have been naked, because although he could smell what he’d done, he didn’t feel anything clinging to his body.

  With that thought, Alex felt a chill. There was no wind, no draught, but he was still cold.

  He came to the conclusion that whatever predicament he was in had nothing to do with Lance Hobson. So maybe it was a rival gang. Perhaps someone had muscled in on his turf, tried to take the drug trade away from them. Happened all the time.

  Maybe they had Lance Hobson as well.

  Above his head he heard a crashing sound, followed by a bang and a clattering before one final thump sounded out, as if something had fallen onto the floor.

  Why? Who was up there? What was up there? Where the fuck was he? A box? A container? Was he in a room, or a cellar?

  Alex raised his head, and lots of light suddenly bathed the space he was in. He winced, the pain too much to bear momentarily, blinking furiously a few times his vision finally focused.

  The room he was in was long and angular. The bricks were old, but in good condition. The building did not have any damp. It was full of boxes, trade names he recognized: Stanley, Draper, Spear & Jackson.

  He realised why the smell had been familiar. He glanced upwards and saw a trapdoor, with steps leading down into the cellar he was in. He was underneath his uncle’s shop, the hardware store in the town.

  Why? What was happening? Who had put him here?

  His uncle wasn’t capable and would have no reason to. He doubted it was Lance, and he couldn’t think of anyone else who could have done so.

  Checking to see if he was, in fact, naked, he was shocked at what had been done to his body.

  He had his back to the wall. He noticed he was not standing on the floor, but supported a foot or so above it, crucifixion style. He glanced slowly at his hands and feet, or at least as much as his head would allow from the angle he was at. Each limb had the head of a huge screw protruding from its appendage, and lines of blood trailing to the concrete below him, intermingling with his own waste. That was why he had been allowed a little movement from his arms and legs, but not his hands and feet. He also noticed two plain white envelopes a few inches above each hand.

  Terrified, Alex fought hard to keep his stomach under control, remembering his mouth was blocked.

  He allowed his eyes to scan his body. In the area of his abdomen, he noticed a wound with fresh stitches, but there were no other marks, cuts, grazes, or bruises on his body.

  Alex moaned. He had never been so petrified in his life. But he figured it wasn’t over by a long way.

  Suddenly he felt a sharp, stinging sensation underneath his skin, directly behind the wound.

  Chapter Seven

  Gary ran out of the shop shouting into his police radio, trying to contact Cragg. PCs Robin Nice and Steve Graham pulled up in the squad car they had been using following the investigation of an attempted break-in at Rudson. Richard Jones was standing near the bicycle rack in front of the shop, which he’d casually made use of.

  “What’s wrong?” asked PC Nice. He was slightly older than Gary, very tall and dangerously thin, but pretty fit despite his appearance.

  “Don’t go in there,” replied Gary. His radio crackled.

  “Come in,” said Cragg on the other end.

  “Why? How bad is it?” asked PC Graham. He was senior member of the three, as tall as Nice but much broader. He played rugby.

  Gary ignored the question, speaking into the radio. “Sir, I think we need some real back-up.”

  “Is it that bad?” asked Cragg.

  “I don’t know,” said Gary. “It’s a mess.”

  “What’s a mess, Gary?” asked Cragg. “Calm down and tell me what you’ve seen.”

  Graham and Nice glanced at each other. Nice placed a hand on Gary’s shoulder. “Do as he says, calm down.”

  “Somebody’s definitely playing games,” said Gary. He went on to explain everything.

  “It is a real body?” asked Cragg.

  “Looks real enough to me. I’m calling a crime scene. We shouldn’t be trampling all over it and we need some back up here. I think this is out of my league.”

  Gary hoped he hadn’t destroyed any evidence when he’d fallen over. PCs Nice and Graham had puzzled expressions, as if he’d lost his mind. Richard Jones moved nearer to them, as if he was part of the squad.

  “Where is this body?” asked Nice.

  “I’ve no idea,” replied Gary.

  “What?” asked Graham. “It isn’t actually in the shop?”

  “I need to talk to Sergeant Cragg,” said Gary. “This looks really serious to me.”

  “Who’s that?” asked PC Graham, pointing to the wall beyond the shop. Nice followed the line of his finger, peering into the semi-darkness.

  “I can’t see anyone.”

  “Well, I’m sure I did,” Graham replied, before taking off in that direction, heading toward the car park and the public toilets.

  Gary thought it might be the person he’d seen on his arrival at the shop and asked Nice to check around the back. He glanced around. The town was waking up. Lights in windows above premises were coming on all over the place.

  “Gary?” asked Cragg. “What’s going on?”

  “Graham thinks he’s seen someone near the public toilets in the car park. I’ve asked Nice to check out the back of the shop.”

  Nice and Graham returned and said they hadn’t seen anyone. The rear of the premises was clean and all locked up.

  “Someone’s gone to a lot of trouble here, sir. The message on the counter said time was running out and then the screen lit up
and I saw the body.”

  “And the person on the screen is still alive?”

  “Yes,” replied Gary, “but his body has been crucified to a wall, and it’s been stitched up and I can see blood, and he was shaking like a shitting dog. If this is a game, it’s a sick one.”

  Cragg sighed, then grew silent.

  Chapter Eight

  Detective Sergeant Sean Reilly aimed the car down Horsemarket Road, and then onto Spital Street. On the right they passed a car park in front of a church, and on the left a group of shops and pubs. He brought the vehicle to a halt in front of another squad car parked at The Shambles.

  Detective Inspector Stewart Gardener jumped out of the passenger seat and closed the car door. From what he’d seen so far, despite the early hour, the town was picturesque: quaint streets and rustic shops.

  The scene that greeted him did not fit into any of those categories.

  There were four people waiting for him, three police officers and one civilian, standing in front of a small hardware shop with a light on.

  Gardener withdrew his warrant card as Reilly came to stand next to him.

  “DI Gardener and DS Reilly, Major Crime Team. Which one of you is Gary Close?”

  “I am, sir,” replied the young PC. As he walked towards Gardener and extended his right hand, the detective couldn’t help but notice his limp.

  “Have you just done that?”

  “No, sir. Broke my leg about three months ago, playing football.”

  “Nasty,” said Reilly, glancing around.

  “You’re the attending officer, Gary? What time did you arrive?”

  “About three-thirty.”

  “Was there anyone else here at that time?”

  “Only this man.” Gary pointed and introduced Richard Jones.

  “Why were you outside the shop, or in fact in the town at such an early hour?”

  “I work the night shift, sir, at the furniture factory outside the town.”

  “And you were just coming home?”

  “That’s right.”

  Gardener studied the man, wondering where he’d seen him before.

  “Did you see anyone else?”

  “No, can’t say I did, but I never do at that time.”

  “Did you go into the shop?”

  “No, sir.”

  As long as Gardener had been on the force, he’d learned to trust his judgment with people. They’d have no trouble with Richard Jones.

  Reilly was wearing his usual attire of brown bomber jacket and jeans, and had his arms folded across his chest. He’d so far chosen to say very little. Gardener sensed he was studying the place. Nothing much escaped the Irishman.

  As the detective glanced around the town, he noticed that the early starters in the business world were coming to life, the butcher and the baker to name but two.

  He turned his attention back to PC Close. “What did you see when you arrived, Gary?”

  “Nothing much, sir. The town was pretty still. I didn’t pass anyone on the way down here. Richard Jones had reported the incident. He was standing across there, outside The Golden Lion, with his bike. The front door of the shop was open, and there was a light on inside.”

  “Have you checked anywhere else, round the back for instance?”

  “I didn’t, but they did.” He pointed to PCs Nice and Graham.

  “And you are?” Gardener asked. Both men acknowledged the senior officers and introduced themselves.

  “And you didn’t see anything you considered unusual?”

  “No, sir,” both men replied in harmony.

  Gardener turned back to Close. “Have you seen anyone suspicious lurking around, Gary?”

  The young PC didn’t answer straight away. Gardener picked up on it instantly.

  “Why the hesitation? Is there something you’re not telling us? Or don’t want to?”

  “It’s not that, sir. It’s just, I can’t be sure whether I actually saw someone or not. And when PC Graham arrived, he thought he had too, but when he checked the area, he didn’t find anyone.”

  “Then let’s widen the search, shall we? Sean, take both PCs with you, search the toilets and the grounds of the church.”

  Gardener watched all three of them leave before speaking to PC Close. “Suppose you describe what you saw in the shop, Gary.”

  By the time Close had done so, Reilly and the two constables had returned with their mystery guest.

  “Who’s this, Sean?”

  “Wouldn’t talk to me, boss. Maybe he’s shy.”

  Gardener asked Gary Close if he knew him. “Yes, it’s Jackie Pollard, local drug dealer. Or one of them, at least.”

  “Is he, now? What have we been up to, Mr Pollard?” Gardener asked the man.

  “Out for a walk. Couldn’t sleep.”

  “Look at the trouble your walk has caused us,” replied Gardener. “We’re going to have to talk to you now, Pollard. I hope you’ll be a little more reasonable when we ask our questions.”

  “You’re the one being unreasonable. I haven’t done anything.”

  Gardener wasted no more time with the dealer. “You two, Graham and Nice, take him to the station and throw him in a cell. I’ll question him later.”

  “You can’t do that,” shouted Pollard.

  “Says who?” Gardener asked.

  “I know my rights.”

  “Good, then you’ll know why we’re detaining you.”

  “As a matter of fact, I don’t. You have nothing to hold me on.” Pollard had found some self-confidence that Gardener didn’t like.

  “Try burglary on for size, Mr Pollard. We’ve been called to investigate commercial premises in the middle of the night. The door is open, and you’re found nearby. We’re lifting you for burglary until you can prove otherwise.”

  He turned to his sergeant. “Sean, caution him.” Gardener then nodded to the two PCs to take him away. Ignoring Pollard’s protests, Gardener turned and walked towards the shop. Reilly followed.

  Inside, Gary Close explained that the shop was exactly as he’d left it.

  “Did you disturb someone, Gary?” Gardener asked, glancing at the mess.

  “Only myself, sir. I thought something moved over that side of the shop, and I fell over into that lot. Turned out it was my reflection.”

  Reilly laughed. “What do you do for an encore, Gary?”

  Gardener grinned. “Don’t worry about him, he’ll grow on you.”

  All three moved further in, toward the counter. Gardener glanced at the note. He had no idea what it meant. He studied the monitor, which now appeared dead. It was very old, cube-shaped, in gunmetal grey with a grille on the side. He couldn’t see any buttons. It had to have worked somehow. He leaned over, but saw nothing to prove his theory.

  “How was the monitor operated?” Gardener asked Close. “Could you see?”

  “No, sir, I didn’t really check, to be honest. I was more interested in what it was showing me.”

  “Did the body on the screen move naturally?”

  “How do you mean?” asked Close.

  “Did it look staged, like a film?”

  Close appeared to think about the answer, casting a doubt in Gardener’s mind. Finally, he replied. “It didn’t look like a film.”

  “So you don’t actually know if any of this is real, son?” asked Reilly.

  “It looked real to me, sir.”

  Gardener figured the young PC’s body language of shifting his hands and feet around meant he was now doubting what he’d seen.

  “I understand, Gary,” said Gardener, “but in all honesty, we’re MIT. We should really only be called out if you find a body.”

  Close appeared disappointed but stood his ground. “I know what I saw, sir. Something about all of this doesn’t sit right with me, and I still think I did the right thing in calling it out.”

  Gardener nodded. “Okay, we’re here so we may as well have a look.”

  Gardener glanced over the coun
ter and noticed the trapdoor in the floor, held in place by a padlock. “Sean, what do you make of that?”

  The Irishman leaned over. “Why would you want a padlock on a trapdoor?”

  “My thoughts exactly. What do you think he has down there?”

  “Cash? Some of these old school guys don’t trust the banks.”

  “Can you blame them, the mess they’ve made of the economy?”

  “I can’t imagine anything of any value down there, sir,” said Gary Close. “Most of the old shops in the town have deep cellars. We have problems with flooding.”

  Gardener threaded his way behind. As he crouched down, he recognized the padlock as an expensive model attached to what resembled a bomb-proof hasp with round-headed bolts.

  He stood up and peered around the shop, noticing an ABUS stand full of padlocks. He searched behind the counter and spotted a discarded packet tucked behind a small stool, a hard plastic, shrink-wrapped one that had been cut open to obtain the lock it had obviously housed. He picked it up.

  The packet informed him it was an ABUS 190 series, which had a high-strength steel body that could not under any circumstances be bolt-cropped. It was also a combination lock with a 4-digit pin number, re-settable to one’s choice of code using a special security key, preventing anyone from changing the combination at a later stage.

  “Looks like there’s definitely something private down there, Sean. Question is, what? Does the owner keep his takings down there? Or his really expensive stock?”

  “Or has somebody else put something down there that they don’t want us to see?” asked Reilly. “What about bolt croppers, boss?”

  “According to the packet, not a chance in hell.”

  “Do you want to try, anyway?”

  “Okay, grab a set off the stand over there.”

  Reilly put on gloves and did as Gardener asked. By the time he’d finished, he was sweating, and there wasn’t a mark on the lock.

  Gardener glanced at Gary Close. “Have you heard anything from down there? Any noises?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Who owns the shop, Gary?”