by Luis Samways
She knew that two of the boys from her school who bullied her actually went on to rape a girl. They got sent down and were killed in prison.
Demi remembered the feeling of justice that ran through her when she found out that her tormenters were finally silenced. They couldn’t hurt anybody. Their control was gone. But a funny thing happened. She now had their control, just like they had hers before. And it felt great to have it. Did that make her a bully now? She didn’t know. But she wanted more control. And as the years went on and she grew older, the amount of control she had doubled, then tripled, then quadrupled, until she was the girl with the most control.
Demi lay there in the middle of that tight coffin with an expression on her face. The darkness was concealing it, but it was an expression of sadness. Throughout all those years, all Demi wanted was her control back. But now she had none. It was like she was back at square one. As if the kids were teasing her in the playground once again. Calling her names. Laughing. Dancing around her.
It made her angry. That was when she balled up her fists and began to pull them apart. She was working on releasing herself from the restraints around her wrists. She wasn’t going to let Donny the Hat dictate her fate.
She wanted her control back.
Suddenly, the movement slowed down. They were stopping. It was a race against time to get her control back.
Before it was too late.
Eighteen
Hamish had been sitting in his car for a good twenty minutes. He had arrived at the car park his boss summoned him to with plenty of time to spare, it would seem. Donny was nowhere to be seen, and that made Hamish feel a little unsettled.
His boss was usually on time. It was one of his character traits. If he was late, then it could only mean one thing: He’d blame Hamish for it, and Hamish would get a slap for his efforts. Hamish didn’t feel like taking one of his boss’s slaps. As much as he could hold in his rage, sometimes he felt like slapping Donny back. Hamish knew that wouldn’t be a good idea. No matter how hard Hamish could slap his boss, Donny would end up killing him for such an action.
That was why Hamish hadn’t slapped Donny before. He knew he could out-fight and out-power his boss, but the thing with Donny was, there was no such thing as a fair fight. It was never one on one with him. It was one on one with a gun, or one on one with a chainsaw. That was the type of man that Donny the Hat was. He was a terrorist. Not in the sense of 9/11, but in the sense that he’d do what he wanted when he wanted. He terrorized people. He hurt them. He defiled them. So getting on Donny’s bad side wasn’t a good idea. For the many men who had, they quickly learnt that they would pay dearly for such a mistake.
“Come on, Donny!” Hamish said out loud as he rested his hands on the steering wheel and kept an eye on the car park’s entrance.
Hamish’s car was the only vehicle in sight. The whole place was deserted. The car park was one of those three-story buildings with walls on both sides and pillars in the middle. It stank of petrol and engine oil. It was cold, and the brick walls looked like they needed a lick of paint. Hamish was daydreaming about catching the football game on Sky Sports that night. He knew he wouldn’t be able to get home in time to see it, but the beer garden had a few TVs, so he’d be able to catch glimpses of the game.
He was close to shutting his eyes and going to sleep when his hand slipped off the wheel and sounded off the car’s horn. A loud squawk of an echo reverberated off the walls and jolted him out of his slumber. He saw the time on his car’s dashboard. It was half past eleven. His boss was slacking, and Hamish was ready to call it quits. But then he noticed a big black vehicle pulling into the car park. The little yellow barrier raised and let the car through. It was an automatic barrier. Which was good, because Hamish thought that a hearse pulling into a car park might raise a few eyebrows with car park workers.
The big black hearse took an easy left and pulled up next to the vehicle. Hamish caught a glimpse of a coffin behind shiny glass. He stared at the coffin, and his heart began to thump. Was it meant for him? Had Donny finally lost his rag with Hamish, and this was an ambush?
The hearse’s window wound down. His boss was sitting in the driver’s seat. He had black gloves on and was fiddling around with them, tightening them up as he waited for Hamish to roll down his window.
“Come on, hurry up!” Donny spat as he watched Hamish wind down his window. It was old and seemed to be catching on the doorframe, which slowed down the rate at which it wound down.
“Hey, boss,” Hamish said as the window disappeared into the door and a slight breeze hit his face.
“Hey, yourself,” Donny said, still fiddling around with his gloves.
“What’s up with the coffin?” Hamish asked.
“None of your fucking business!” his boss snapped, opening the door and sliding out. He slammed his door and walked up to Hamish’s window. He knelt down and stuck his head in.
“You wait here, okay?” Donny said.
“Sure,” Hamish replied.
“Me and the boys over there have got some last-minute funeral arrangements. We’re off on foot — it’s only down the road. But I need you to guard the hearse, okay?”
“Sure,” Hamish said again.
“Good. You got your heater?”
Hamish patted himself down and found his handgun. He took it out and placed it on the dash.
“Good,” his boss said, squeezing out of the driver’s window and straightening up. “I won’t be long. Whatever you do, don’t let anybody near the fucking hearse! Got it?”
“Yes, boss. One thing, though — whose funeral are you arranging?”
His boss shook his head. The disappointment was obvious. “What did I fucking tell you, Hamish? None of your fucking business. Now do as I tell you, or I’ll make sure once we’re done with this, you’re next!”
His boss started walking off. The hearse’s passenger-side door opened, and two people Hamish didn’t recognize walked out. They were large like Hamish but looked a lot smarter. Hamish hated them immediately. He watched them walk off with his boss, laughing and joking. He found himself gripping the steering wheel hard with his hands. He didn’t like being talked to like an idiot. But he swallowed hard and got on with it. It was all he could do, after all. That was his job.
Hamish watched as his boss and his two new associates walked off through the exit, leaving Hamish to ponder the contents of the coffin.
Nineteen
The air inside the coffin was beginning to get thick. Demi was struggling to breathe. It felt corrosive against her lungs as she took deep breaths. She was still trying to undo her restraints, but they weren’t shifting. No matter how hard she tried, or how much she pulled, the cable ties around her wrists were not budging an inch. The more she tried to escape the clutches of the ties, the more they dug into her wrists.
She sighed loudly and decided to leave the escaping for later. She was too tired. The lack of oxygen in the coffin made every movement doubly hard. She was getting breathless just lying down, let alone attempting to get her restraints off.
The engine noise was gone, so she knew they were now parked. For some reason, there was silence. Nothingness. Just her raspy lungs fighting for breath and a slight ringing in her ears she was getting for no apparent reason.
Demi lay there for a good two to three minutes in complete silence. She was trying to distinguish if she was alone or whether her captors were outside, waiting to pounce. But it was no use. She couldn’t decipher the silence. It was deafening in a sense, which made it harder for her to pinpoint what was going on exactly.
She came to the conclusion that she had been left by the road someplace. Dumped and forgotten about. Maybe they parked the vehicle somewhere. Maybe in a warehouse or an abandoned building, much like the one they’d kept her in before they decided to stick her in a coffin.
As she lay there, thinking and breathing, she realized she had two options. She could scream at the top of her lungs — maybe somebody woul
d come and rescue her — or she could bide her time, wait for a result of some sorts. She couldn’t be too sure about anything. After all, she was locked away in the back of some vehicle, most likely a van, in a damn coffin. It didn’t give her much of a choice when it came to things she could do.
Dying with dignity was the only thing left to do. Most people would have a different view on what dying with dignity means. For some it might be dying quietly, on your own merit, flooded by your own thoughts, while others would consider dying with dignity meant you fought back and took a few of them with you before they ended your life.
Demi couldn’t decide which one she was thinking of. Part of her wanted to die peacefully, without any crying, without any pain. But another part of her knew that she wouldn’t be dying peacefully. She knew that, given half a chance at escape, or even a chance to take Donny with her to the grave, she wouldn’t hesitate one bit.
Lying there unchallenged got her thinking. Maybe it was time to act. Maybe dying with dignity wasn’t the only choice. Maybe there were multiple choices. Infinite choices.
She couldn’t let them break her resolve. She just couldn’t allow them to get one up on her like that. Demi Reynolds was a fighting girl, and fighting girls didn’t go out with dignity. They went out swinging. They went out shooting.
They went out killing!
It was then that she remembered the walkie-talkie and oxygen cylinder Donny had chucked in with her. All this time she had forgotten about them. But now she had something to focus on. Something to work on. She was going to get out of her restraints. Even if it killed her, she was going to fight for her air. She was going to fight for the right to talk. And nobody could stop her.
The walkie-talkie and cylinder were on her chest. They were out of reach. Her arms wouldn’t bend properly, being restrained and all. So she knew she’d have an uphill battle. She knew that breaking free from her shackles would mean a victory for her.
Even if it was a small victory, it would be a victory nonetheless. And she needed as many as them as she could possibly muster.
She began to pull harder. Her restraints resisted, but she felt them loosen a little as she pulled. Demi pulled harder once again. The pain that the restraints were causing was overwhelming. She could feel them dig deeper incisions into her skin. Her wrists were running with blood, but she continued to tear and pull.
Tear and pull. Tear and pull. Twist and pull. Twist and pull.
Blood began to trickle down her arms. Then it went from a trickle to a run. More blood. More pulling. More twisting. She was nearly there. All she needed was one last pull, and the restraints would be off and she could finally suck on some fresh air.
“Come on, you bastard!” she shouted.
Twenty
Hamish was inside his car, parked next to the hearse. He watched his reflection contort and flex on the thick black metallic paint of the vehicle. He wondered what was inside it. Who was inside it. But he didn’t dare take a look. If his boss found out that he’d gotten curious, then he’d pay dearly for it. Donny didn’t like people sticking their noses in his business, so he wouldn’t appreciate Hamish having a look at who the unlucky soul was.
He remained in his car, windows wound down, listening to the emptiness of the car park. All the while, he didn’t take his gaze off the hearse or the glass back of the vehicle that housed the cheap wooden coffin. It was a strange sight, seeing one of those coffins in such an impressive vehicle. Hamish was always interested in life after death, so knowing there was someone in the back of that vehicle who’d gone through both, while Hamish has yet only been through one, made the temptation to peek a little stronger.
But he remained in his car and kept a lookout, just like his boss asked. He didn’t want to end up in a coffin of his own. He was growing tired of looking over his shoulder on a daily basis. It seemed to him that that was all he did. It seemed as if his life was confined to anxiety and fear. Worrying about death on a daily basis takes its toll on the spirit. But Hamish would breathe in deep and exhale. Then all his problems disappeared — until a few hours later, when they’d crop up on him and make him even more frightened.
Living in fear was a horrible thing. But his line of work, being a gangster, as the media would put it, was a far cry from the peaceful life that Hamish desired so badly. He saw himself as somebody who would retire young and live in a cottage in the country, where money wasn’t an issue and violence was a distant memory.
But Hamish knew those things were pipe dreams. He knew he was destined for much less. He was most likely fated to end up in an early unmarked grave. Shot in the back by somebody he trusted implicitly. Maybe a member of his own firm. Definitely a member of his own firm. That was how it worked in the game. You got taken out by your own. A soldier’s death, brought on by a fellow comrade.
Blood in, blood out.
Being a gangster was a life choice. Once you changed your mind, it would cost you your life. It always made Hamish feel uneasy knowing how he danced with the devil every day. Every time he stepped out of a car or out of his own damn house, he was risking being blown away by some crack head being paid by somebody else to do their dirty work.
He was tired of feeling scared.
“I don’t have to put up with this anymore,” Hamish said, immediately getting out of his car and stretching his legs. He swung the door shut behind him. It echoed loudly in the car park. It hung in the air for a second or two, then disappeared.
Hamish was fed up with sitting in the car. He didn’t like it. He found it to be the most annoying part of his job. He’d be just as affective leaning against the hearse in the fresh air than cooped up in his car watching water residue spread across his windshield.
He reached into his jacket and pulled out some chewing gum. He chucked it in his mouth and went to town on it, rolling it around the inside of his mouth, enjoying the sweet flavor of the spearmint. He started to pace a little as he chewed. He’d been waiting for a good forty minutes. His legs needed stretching, and his mind needed easing. A man alone with his own thoughts could be a dangerous thing. There was nothing like the voice in your head telling you what’s what to make you crack.
Hamish wasn’t interested in losing his marbles. He knew he had to keep his wits about him. So he tried not to think about stuff too much, even though he was effectively still thinking about whoever was in that coffin in front of him. He stopped pacing and stood idle for a while. He stared at the coffin and the glass. He could see his reflection in the glass. It was warped and looked twice the size of him in real life, like one of those mirrors at the fun fair. He stood there and stared hard, as if he was trying to see through the materials that sat in front of him. Like an X-ray, he was trying to look deep inside and imagined whoever was lying there, stiff as the wind, dead as a rock.
“Rest easy,” he found himself saying under his breath for no apparent reason. It felt right.
He turned around and was about to walk back to his car when he heard something. He quickly turned on his heels and stared at the hearse. He stayed there staring for a whole minute, motionless. His eyes were the only part of his body moving. His lips were shut tight, and his arms were stiff and rigid.
“Who’s there?” he boomed, his voice loud and raucous.
The same noise sounded once again. He didn’t know what it was, but he knew where it was coming from. He slowly moved towards the side of the hearse, staring at the coffin inside it. He reached the glass and gently put both hands on it. He pressed them against the glass and held them there. He then turned his head to the side and placed his left ear on the cold surface. It sent a shockwave of ice through him. But he remained there, his ear pressed against the glass.
Somebody coughed. It wasn’t him. He backed away from the hearse. The sound had come from inside the coffin. Somebody was in there! Somebody was alive!
“Jesus Christ!” Hamish said, holding his hands up in a defensive manner, as if the hearse was going to come swinging for him.
&n
bsp; Hamish’s heart was thumping in his chest when he heard the sound of approaching footsteps from behind him. He turned on his heels and was met by a confused look from his boss, who was approaching him with his two goons. The three of them were holding shovels.
“What the fuck’s up with you, fatty?” Donny asked, half concerned, half being a prick.
Hamish didn’t know what to say. He just stood there and stared at his oncoming boss.
“Come on then, spit it out!”
Hamish took a few steps back and then pointed at the hearse. “There’s somebody in there, boss!” he said, his voice sounding panicked.
“Of course there is, you muppet. I put them there!”
“But I heard somebody coughing in there,” Hamish said as his boss and his two goons reached Hamish. All three of them were smiling, like Hamish had said something funny.
“I didn’t say that whoever was in there was dead, now, did I?”
Donny pushed past Hamish and opened the driver’s door to the hearse. He then handed his shovel over to one of his goons, who placed all three shovels in the back of the hearse next to the coffin. All three men then got in the front and shut the doors. Donny stared at Hamish, who was standing next to his car, motionless and confused.
“Look, Hamish, don’t worry about it. That person deserves everything they got coming to them. They killed my brother, damn it!”
Hamish looked shocked. He suddenly didn’t feel so bad. He just couldn’t believe Donny had found the perpetrator already.
“Okay, boss. Sorry about that — it’s just strange, you know? You don’t see this every day!”
Donny nodded and said, “You sure don’t.”
The hearse’s engine fired up, and Donny started to reverse. Hamish watched as his boss turned the vehicle 180 degrees and slowly drove off.
“See you later, then,” Hamish muttered under his breath, and got in his car. He turned the key, and the engine sputtered to life. Radio Two came on, and the presenter was rambling about something.