Nothing Else Remains

by Robert Scragg

  Quick time check. Four minutes since he’d left the car. Ten since he’d been speaking to the police. Where the hell were they? He peeled away from the wall, ready to chance his luck listening at the main door, when he heard the handle turn, saw the door swing open towards him. Whoever was coming out would have their view obscured for a few seconds until it closed again, and Callum used every one of them to flatten himself against the wall.

  He bit down on his lip, felt fresh sweat bloom. His ragged breathing sounded like thunder in his own ears. A sound from around the corner. Scraping, scratching, clicking. Cigarette lighter, maybe? Silence, then one long, steady exhale of breath. Curiosity wasn’t enough to prise him away from the wall. Fear kept him pinned there like a fly to flypaper, clammy palms pressed against the chilled concrete.

  Couldn’t have been more than a minute before the handle squeaked again, and before he realised what he was doing, he was edging to the corner, peering around to see the door inching closed. Short, quick steps, up on toes, he managed to grab the handle a half inch shy of the door jamb. Counted to three, wondering if they would come back out, but nobody pushed back against his grip. A five-count next, giving whoever it was time to walk back inside the building, away from the entrance.

  Gut check time, fella.

  He pulled the handle, carefully peering through the widening gap, seeing the back end of the car. BMW. He’d been right first guess. The door passed the halfway mark, and he stepped through and right into a scene that stopped him dead in his tracks.

  ‘Who are you?’ Max asked, dry words croaking through dry throat, as if he’d swallowed a handful of sand.

  ‘I could ask you the same question, Max. You’re the fly in my ointment, the uninvited guest,’ the man said, leaning back in his chair, arms folded.

  ‘I didn’t ask to be your guest, Joseph,’ Max spat out, ‘or do you prefer Joe?’ What he’d give for a drink of water. Every word hurt, scraping their edges along his throat on the way out.

  The man gave a short, barking laugh, and slapped a hand against his thigh. ‘There you go, Max, you know all the answers already, don’t you?’

  ‘I know you won’t get away with this … whatever this is. Why did you kill Harold Mayes, and where the hell is my father?’

  ‘Is this the part where I take you through my plans for world domination, then leave you in an easily escapable situation like any good villain should?’ Baxter rolled his eyes. ‘Tut, tut, Max. You’ve been watching way too many Bond films. No, let me tell you what happens now.’ He sat forwards, staring unblinking at Max as though his eyes would bore a hole right through Max’s forehead. ‘Whether you see your lovely lady again, whether you get to meet your father, very much depends on how you answer a few simple questions I have for you.’

  Max held his gaze, slowly pushing against the plastic ties holding him in place, testing for give, finding none. Baxter stood up, walked slowly over to Max and squatted down beside him.

  ‘Don’t worry, they’re not too tricky. In fact, they’re all about you.’

  ‘Me?’ said Max. ‘Why me, what do—’

  ‘I’m not finished, Max. Don’t interrupt me again.’ His tone stayed level, but somehow that delivered the command with all the more force. He stood, walked behind Max, placed a hand on either shoulder and leant in, close enough that Max caught a whiff of stale breath.

  ‘It’s entirely up to you how this turns out. You give me what I want, we part ways, and you never see me again. You don’t …’ His lips were practically touching Max’s ear now. ‘Well, that way didn’t work out too well for the likes of Harold, did it?’

  ‘Where’s my father?’ Max tried again but heard the fear in his own voice.

  ‘I’ll give you a minute to decide how this plays out,’ he said, ignoring Max’s question, and headed outside without another word. The door clicked closed behind him, and the sound stung Max into action. He tried pulling against his restraints, but the plastic held firm and cut deep, binding his wrists behind his back. He looked around frantically, heart thudding a desperate rhythm.

  Had Porter managed to track him, or was he in this on his own? The guy seemed in no hurry, which suggested the latter. The building looked like a small warehouse, nothing to identify who it belonged to. The car beside him was empty, and there was no sign of anyone else. If he could just get loose, one-on-one, he fancied his chances. He spotted a desk by the far wall, thirty feet or so away, but it wasn’t the laptop that caught his eye. Black-handled scissors sat balanced over the edge.

  The ties around his legs had maybe half an inch of give in them. Maybe he could push up on tiptoes, totter across to them. He leant forwards as best he could, let his weight transfer to the balls of his feet, but before he could make an attempt, the door clicked open and Baxter stepped inside, tucking a packet of cigarettes into his pocket.

  Max let his legs relax, reaching for a plan B and coming up short, when something moved beyond Baxter. The door opened again, slower this time, and Callum Carr peeked through. Max switched his gaze to Baxter, willed himself to not look back to the door. Whatever Callum had planned, he had to give him a chance to do it, not draw attention to him.

  Please, God, tell me he has a plan.

  Callum was rooted to the spot, fixated on the sight of his friend strapped to a chair, forehead bruised a shade of plum. The hand gripping the piece of wood ached, and he licked dry lips for the hundredth time. He stepped inside, easing the door home, resting it against the frame rather than letting it click shut, like a kid sneaking out of their room at night.

  The man walked towards the chair opposite Max and stopped, resting both hands on the back of it.

  ‘So, might as well get started. Hope I made myself clear about both ways this can pan out?’

  Callum was less than six feet away now. He switched his grip to a two-handed one, raising the wood slowly over his right shoulder.

  Five feet

  Four …

  Three … The countdown changed, not measuring distance now, but seconds. The time when he would swing the wood, arcing round, slamming into the back of the man’s head.

  Two …

  One …

  It could have been the defiant look from Max, staring at the man as if he was the only thing that mattered in the world right now. Might have been the absence of something the man was expecting that never came, the missing click of the door closing behind him. Callum tensed his muscles, sucked in a quick breath, held it, ready to let it whoosh out with the effort of the swing. Started to swing the wood over his shoulder and around, baseball-bat-style.

  The man turned into a crouch, arms instinctively moving to protect his face before he knew what the danger was. There was never any doubt the blow would connect, but it crashed across forearms instead of his head. The wood felt awkward in Callum’s hands, flat edge making it feel more of a paddle than bat. Sweaty fingers slipped as it connected, almost losing their grip. Not quite the knockout blow he’d hoped for, but, combined with the man’s own turn, it had enough force and momentum to send him spinning around one-eighty, down to the ground.

  Callum adjusted his grip, raising it to strike again, but the brief hesitation cost him. As the two-by-four started its journey from a million miles up, the man moved. Didn’t try to get up, or even block with his arms again. Instead, he lifted the arm that had been braced against the floor, letting himself fall back, sweeping a foot towards Callum. It connected with his leading leg, chopping it out from under him, felling him like a tree. Callum’s hands opened as he fell, makeshift weapon spinning away as he tried to break his own fall.

  Callum landed hard on his backside and tried to push back up to his feet. A hand gripped his shin, another grabbing at his trousers, pulling him across the rough floor. He tried to swat them away, but the man used them like handholds to climb across him. A knee swung either side of Callum, pinning him in place.

  He held his hands up in front of his face, hoping to deflect anything heading his wa
y. A fist looped around his defences, crashing into the side of his head, exploding fireworks in his skull and starring his vision with a thousand pinpricks of white light. He was vaguely aware of the other arm, rising high, falling fast, coming to deliver a second blow, and screwed his eyes shut, turning his face away, cheek to the floor.

  It never landed. Instead, he felt a jarring impact down by his hips. Heard a voice roar in pain, weight suddenly lifted from him. Callum opened his eyes to see the man lying off to the side, with Max, still strapped to his chair, lying awkwardly on top.

  ‘Get up,’ Max roared at Callum, rolling his weight side to side, making it awkward for the man underneath him to get back up. Callum grabbed at the man’s hands where he was trying to push Max off himself. The man kept one hand on Max, lashing out at Callum with the other. Callum pushed himself up to a sitting position, grabbing both of the man’s wrists, looking around for his piece of wood, but it had skittered out of reach, over by the car.

  He felt the strength flowing back into the man’s arms, saw his eyes clearing from the impact with Max. Clammy hands started to lose their grip, and the man pulled against him, hard. Callum saw Max twist his head all the way around to the left, just as the man jerked his wrists free. Max swung his head back towards the man’s face like a wrecking ball, side of his forehead colliding with the man’s nose, exploding it like a party popper.

  Callum saw the man’s eyes roll back in his head. He looked at Max, saw him wincing in pain, but conscious.

  ‘Scissors,’ said Max, eyes still closed.

  ‘Huh?’ What was Max on about? Was he concussed? Callum’s own head still rang from the blow he’d taken.

  ‘On the desk. Scissors. Get the bloody scissors.’

  Callum’s brain popped back into gear, and he realised what Max meant. Cut him free, tip the odds their way, two on one. The man could wake up any second. Callum didn’t have the first clue what he would do if that happened, but he was damned if he was going to lie here till it happened and find out.

  Even with the blue lights strobing, progress felt painfully slow. Some drivers seemed oblivious until he was literally touching their bumpers. Benayoun had put a call out for all units within a five-mile radius to respond, but Porter owed it to Max to be first there. He’d made a promise to Jen.

  Ten minutes out, and the road finally started to clear. Porter called Benayoun back.

  ‘Hey, it’s Porter. Get Callum Carr back on the phone and conference me in. I want to know what we’re turning up to.’

  He stole a glance at Styles as he waited, fighting the urge to pick up what they’d started, squashed it back down into a tight knot in his gut. It’d keep. Benayoun came back to him a minute later.

  ‘He’s not answering, guv.’

  ‘Then try him again.’ Porter’s patience was paper thin.

  ‘Tried him twice, and left a voicemail and text asking him to call ASAP.’

  ‘Just keep ringing till he answers, or we get there.’

  The line went dead as she disappeared to do just that. There were plenty of reasons why Carr wasn’t answering his phone, but hardly any of them led to a happy ending.

  Callum sliced through the cable ties, and Max eyed Baxter warily, massaging the feeling back into his wrists. He touched a hand to his head. Felt the swelling near his temple where his head had connected with Baxter’s nose. His fingers came away spotted with red, but he was pretty sure it wasn’t his own blood.

  Baxter groaned, and Max gestured to Callum for the scissors. He put the flat of the blade against Baxter’s neck as he and Callum dragged him to his feet.

  ‘Try anything, and it won’t end well for you,’ Max said. He felt Baxter shaking. Scratch that – it was his hand holding the scissors, palsied twitching from the adrenaline dump.

  ‘Here, take these,’ he said to Callum, nodding towards the scissors. ‘Keep an eye on him while I look around.’

  ‘Look for what?’ said Callum, switching places with him.

  ‘Something to tie him up with. Anything’ll do. More of those plastic ties if he’s got them,’ he said, rifling through the desk drawers. ‘Where do you keep them?’

  Baxter’s head had been slumped forwards, chin against chest, but he raised it now. His nose was a mess, cranked to one side like he was trying to sniff around a corner. But despite it all, he was grinning. Blood had run into his mouth, red stripes across the white like a barber’s pole.

  ‘Well played, gents, well played. I’d give you a round of applause, but you might get a bit twitchy with those things if I moved my hands,’ he said, only his eyes moving in the direction of the scissors.

  ‘Cut the bullshit. Where are the ties?’ Max snapped at him. His limbs still felt like the energy had been sucked out of them, arms and legs a ton weight.

  ‘Back at the house. Only brought enough with me to do the job.’

  ‘Job?’

  Baxter ignored the question. ‘Can I move a hand to check my nose? I think it’s broken.’

  ‘One hand,’ said Max, narrowing his eyes, sceptical of anything and everything at the moment. ‘And slowly.’

  Baxter slid his right hand up in a slow sweep, took his nose carefully between finger and thumb, and winced as he moved it side to side. He blocked his right nostril with his thumb and blew, hard. Blood sprayed out, speckling his trousers, as well as the floor, a gory join-the-dots. He repeated the process with his other nostril and wiped his hands on his chest.

  ‘You caught me good,’ he said, with the slightest of nods. ‘Suppose a lift to the hospital is out of the question?’

  Max gave a sardonic grin. ‘Maybe later. For now, how about you take a moment to think how this could play out,’ he said, mimicking Baxter’s words from earlier. ‘I’m guessing it’s pointless asking if you have anything useful we can use to tie you up lying around here?’

  ‘Hmm, if only I’d known,’ he said, ‘I could have brought a selection.’

  Max picked up the chair he’d been tied to and set it opposite Baxter, looking around, taking in the rest of the warehouse properly for the first time. As he leant both hands on the back of the chair, a thought popped into his head.

  ‘How the hell did you even find me?’ he asked Callum.

  ‘Quite interested to know that myself, actually,’ said Baxter.

  ‘No one’s talking to you,’ Callum cut in, applying a fraction more pressure so the blade sank into the skin of Baxter’s neck. ‘Tell you later when this is done,’ he said to Max. ‘Us journos never reveal our sources. I spoke to your mate as well, Porter. Should be here any minute.’

  If this alarmed Baxter, he didn’t show it. Max wandered over to the desk, let his eyes drift over the few things on display. He scanned the room next. A row of white units lined part of the far wall. Past the last of them was a door.

  ‘What’s that?’ he asked Baxter, pointing over at it.

  ‘Nothing.’ Baxter shrugged. ‘Just storage, see for yourself.’

  Max walked over and peered through the glass pane in the door. Barely enough light to see the back of the room, but he could make out rows of gunmetal-grey shelving, bottles of what looked like bleach, cardboard boxes and a mop over in the far corner. A single chair sat in the middle of the room. Max tried the door. Locked.

  ‘Where’s the key?’

  ‘I forget,’ said Baxter, with a wistful look. ‘This blow to the head has made things a bit fuzzy.’

  ‘Where’s my father?’ Max called across the room.

  ‘Were you two close?’

  ‘Just answer the question.’

  ‘Tell you what, Max. Do you a deal. One for one. You answer one of mine, I’ll answer one of yours.’

  ‘I’m not answering a bloody thing,’ Max spat back. He was over by the far wall now. The four white containers were stacked along it like building blocks, matching padlocks pinning lids in place.

  ‘What are these? Why are they locked?’

  ‘All these questions, Max. One for one, or I�
�ll wait and take my chances with the police. Can’t wait to see their reaction when they storm in and see me, face smashed up, blade to my neck. I might even press charges.’

  Max didn’t know whether to laugh or swear. ‘You’re unbelievable! You honestly expect anyone to believe you’re the innocent party here?’

  When Baxter spoke, he sounded bored, like Max was keeping him from being somewhere far more important. ‘You weren’t happy at how the police were handling your father’s disappearance. You thought I knew something and confronted me at my car. Forced me to drive you here and tried to beat a confession out of me.’

  ‘You listen to me, you lying bastard, no one will believe a word of that. You killed Harold Mayes. You kidnapped me. Kidnapped Jen, and you do know where my dad is.’

  ‘Based on what, Max? What proof have you got that backs up any of that? Even a crap lawyer could throw enough reasonable doubt at that for some to stick. One for one, Max. Offer still stands.’

  Max’s fists clenched till they ached. The urge to smash them into the already pulped nose was so strong, pulling him towards Baxter like gravity, but he wheeled away, cursing, before anger got the better of him. No way could he be badged as the villain here, reasonable doubt or not. The desire, no, the need, to know what had happened to his father had become all-consuming. If the police came, took Baxter away, boxed him up in a cupboard-sized interview room, he might never get a chance to find out.

  In through the nose, out through the mouth. Stay calm.

  He turned back to face Baxter. ‘We weren’t close. He skipped town before I was born. Didn’t know I existed for years.’

  ‘And what changed?’ Baxter tilted his head, listening, like a friend with an ear to bend.

  ‘Mum hired an investigator. They tracked him down, gave her his address, so I wrote him a letter.’

  ‘A letter?’ Baxter chuckled. ‘An actual letter, on paper? How quaint. How did he take that?’