by Tor Fleck
‘This is an on-going investigation,’ said Hardy, ‘so don’t go booking any flights. We may need to speak with you again.’ As Paul pushed past him to the door, Hardy grabbed his arm. ‘Make sure you sign out on your way past the desk,’ he said. Then, in a lower voice, ‘This isn’t over.’
The desk sergeant glowered at Paul as he handed him the sign sheet. ‘Do you still wish to report any other alleged crimes?’ he asked with a smirk.
‘Are you serious?’ said Paul. ‘You lot couldn’t solve a Scooby Doo mystery.’
The sergeant shrugged and pushed the clipboard back under his Racing Post.
Paul needed to clear his head before facing Richard again, so took the long way home through the park. As he emerged on the other side, he was suddenly grabbed from behind and wrestled to the ground, where he was gagged and blindfolded. His hands were bound, and he was bundled unceremoniously into the boot of a car. Soon he was being tossed from side to side, his head battering against the hard interior. He kicked out, but the car sped on regardless. After fifteen minutes of claustrophobic torture, the car finally stopped and Paul heard the familiar crunch of feet on gravel. The boot hatch clicked open and he was hauled out, legs flailing, and carried indoors. The stink of petrol and dust was everywhere. He was dropped onto a chair, ropes tightening around his chest, his waist, his ankles. A door slammed shut. Paul twisted his head round, but couldn’t see through the gag. He tried wriggling out of the ropes, but their tightness tore at his skin.
Minutes seemed to drag into hours before another door creaked open. Feet clicked across a concrete floor. Someone was breathing next to Paul’s ear. He swung his head sideways and head-butted whoever was there. There was a yelp of pain, some shuffling and mumbling, and then the blindfold was removed. Paul screwed up his eyes against a piercing white light.
A shadowy figure was moving in and out of the glare. As Paul’s eyes adjusted, he could just make out a large floor lamp being beamed into his face. Beyond the lamp, a bare concrete room slowly emerged. A cell? A garage lock-up? Someone pulled the gag from Paul’s mouth and he yelled as loud as he could.
‘Save your breath,’ growled a voice from beyond the lamp. ‘Nobody can hear you.’
‘Help!’ Paul screamed. ‘Help! Help!’ The figure moved in front of the lamp for a moment, and Paul caught brief glimpses of his captor: a large body, a long black coat, a mask.
‘You’re making things very difficult for us,’ the figure hissed. His voice seemed to be artificially altered, as though filtered electronically.
‘Oh, I’m so fucking sorry,’ Paul barked back sarcastically.
‘Indeed you will be.’ The mask stepped closer. Paul almost shat himself as a pouting Donald Trump emerged from the light, his loose rubber lips flopping and folding as he moved.
‘Fuck off!’ Paul shouted, his body jerking and spasming against the straps, almost toppling his chair. Trump Mask stepped back, waiting till Paul had exhausted himself. ‘You continue to disappoint us, Mr Grant,’ Trump Mask said. He was speaking into a small plastic mic, attached to what appeared to be a child’s mini karaoke speaker.
‘Oh, for fuck’s sake,’ said Paul, giving up on the ropes. ‘What is this? A bad fucking Bond movie? What is it you want?’
‘Two things,’ said Trump Mask, holding the mic to the mask’s wrinkled, ruby-red sphincter of a mouth. ‘Erase your script from all online sources, delete your files, and shred all hard copies.’
‘That’s three things,’ smirked Paul.
‘Shut your – ’ Feedback screeched through the karaoke speaker. Trump Mask smacked the side of the plastic box. It wailed again, and then stopped. ‘Comply,’ he said, his voice jumping a couple of octaves, making him sound like a toddler. He wrestled with the machine again and it growled and barked as though it was fighting back.
‘And if I don’t?’ asked Paul. ‘Oh, let me guess. You’ll get Odd Job to throw me to the sharks. Or will you just laser my bollocks in half?’
Trump Mask threw the karaoke machine across the room, where it smacked the wall with a fatal scream. He lunged at Paul, grabbing him by the throat, choking him. ‘Comply!’ he roared, tightening his grip. Paul could barely breathe. He tried to wriggle free but the ties were too tight. His lungs began to burn. He pleaded with his eyes for Trump Mask to stop, but if anything the man’s grip only tightened.
‘Enough!’ A roar from an unseen woman caused Trump Mask to freeze. ‘Enough!’ she repeated, and Trump Mask released his grip. Paul gasped in mouthfuls of air, coughing and spluttering as the oxygen raced down his windpipe. Trump Mask put his lips to Paul’s ear. ‘Comply,’ he whispered.
‘Okay, okay,’ gasped Paul. ‘I’ll do as you say.’
‘And the master file?’
‘I’ll give it to you.’
‘Good boy,’ Trump Mask sneered.
‘Somewhere public.’ Paul paused to catch his breath. ‘St. George’s Square.’
Trump Mask grabbed Paul by the hair and shook him violently. ‘Argh!’ Paul yelled, as a searing pain shot across his scalp. ‘St. George’s Square,’ Trump Mask hissed. ‘Tomorrow. 10am.’ Paul nodded in agreement. ‘And let me be clear,’ threatened Trump Mask, ‘No show or no stick and it’s goodbye Mr Grant and Mr Gann.’
‘Okay, okay,’ said Paul. ‘I’ll be – ’ A blindfold was flung roughly over his eyes and a fresh gag stuffed into his mouth. He was dragged from the chair back out into the chilled air and squeezed into the back seat of a car, sandwiched between two mute, black-suited males. As the car took off, they grabbed his arms and pinned him back.
This journey was shorter than the last. The car pulled to a halt after only a couple of minutes and Paul was thrown out onto cold tarmac. He spat out the gag and untied the blindfold to find himself outside Hillhead tube station on Byres Road. It was rush hour, the street busy with commuters. He was bumped into by one of them and almost fell off the kerb. He looked for the departing car, but the road was already heaving with traffic. He stopped a passer-by. ‘Did you see where that car went?’ he asked, but the passer-by looked at Paul as though he’d just asked him to wipe his arse for him and hurried on past. ‘Did nobody see that?’ Paul asked the mass of passing bodies. But everyone was too preoccupied: with their phones, their music, their getting home. They had no time for another student prank, or whatever this was. Paul straightened himself up and headed home. He’d only gone a couple of yards when he veered into a pub and ordered a pint and a double chaser, and when they were done, he ordered a couple more.
19
Paul threw up into the toilet as though in a sudden rush to rid himself of all the shit of the past few months. Nerves, stress, worry, and the remains of the previous night’s Chicken Chasni all found themselves swimming together in a thick soup at the bottom of the bowl. Better out than in, he thought grimly, as he pushed down on the button-flush and watched the gloop of his past swirl away. If only it was that simple.
He found some Ibuprofen in the kitchen and made himself a coffee. He’d need both for what was to come, the dread of which had suddenly hit him like a runaway train. He squinted at the clock: 8.15. Where the hell was Richard? He shouted for him, his temples pounding as the words reverberated around his skull, but the flat was empty. The one time he could really do with Richard’s help and he’d pulled his fucking Keyser Soze act. Twat.
Paul slumped down at the table and plotted out the hand-over in St. George’s Square. What was he thinking? He’d only said it to buy some time, but now he had to decide whether to actually go through with it or not. He could give them a blank USB stick, of course, or at least one with a bogus file on it. Maybe then he’d get a look at the perpetrators. Was he up to a citizen’s arrest? Could he tackle his stalker, bring him down in the centre of St. George’s Square? He shook his head. Bad idea. No, he would hand over the stick and then attract the attention of the police. Maybe create a scene to make sure they ‘engaged’ with the situation. But then what? He rubbed his eyes. His head was still
throbbing. Fast-acting Ibuprofen, my arse.
On the way to the underground, Paul passed the computer repair shop. The shutters were down and a small handwritten sign was taped to the door. ‘Closed until further notice’. Paul peered inside, but it was too dark to see anything clearly.
In the florist’s next door the elderly owner was busy arranging carnations on a large wreath. ‘Excuse me,’ said Paul, from the other side of the counter. The florist looked up. She seemed flushed, and a little emotional.
‘Oh, sorry, son,’ she said. ‘I didnae see ye there.’ She gazed down at the floral display stretching from one end of the counter to the other. ‘Poor man was only twenty-eight. Motorway pile up.’ She placed a carnation strategically. ‘This is for his wee daughter. She’s only two,’ she sniffed.
‘You’re doing a lovely job,’ said Paul. He regretted coming in now.
‘Thanks son, though it’ll be nae comfort to that poor mithir.’
Paul leaned over and placed his hands on the counter. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘but do you know anything about the shop next door?’
The florist’s eyes widened. ‘No, that’s very odd, isn’t it?’ she said. ‘Axel usually tells me when he’s planning on closing so I can keep a wee eye oot on his premises, ye ken? But he’s never shut. I think the last time wiz when he went tae wan a they … sigh-figh … conventions.’ She pronounced the word as though it was language from another planet. ‘He’s quite partial tae awe that guff. Dresses up in awe the gear, ken? Whit a sicht.’
‘Thanks,’ said Paul, feeling guilty for the intrusion. ‘And please send my condolences to the family.’ He nodded and left, leaving the florist to place the final white carnation at the end of the wreath, to complete the word Daddy.
Even at 10.00am St. George’s Square was relatively busy. Tourists milled around, couples clinched on benches, and city workers puffed their way through one cancerous fag break after another. Paul checked his watch: 9.50. Christ, his heart was pumping. Weaving his way through a group of snap-happy Chinese and a troop of Chamber of Commerce dignitaries, he reached the fountain in the centre of the square and stopped. He slowly turned 360 degrees, checking the faces and body language of those around him. He clocked a shifty looking male in dull blazer and scuffed shoes on the other side of the fountain. Was he one of them? The severe look on his face suggested he could be. Paul took a breath and marched towards him, just as a woman appeared from the crowd and leapt into the man’s arms. A lover. Of course. Paul bent down and pretended to tie his lace. He was sweating now. When he stood back up he was surrounded by a crescent of foreign tourists, all jostling for a perfect pose by the fountain. Above their heads, he spotted two men approach from the far side of the square, moving with purpose. Paul pushed his way towards them, but tripped over a bag one of the tourists had placed on the ground and had to grab someone’s shoulder to stop himself from falling. By the time he’d regained his balance the two men had vanished. Paul spun round. There. One of the men was about thirty feet away to his left. Where’s the other one? Paul spun back the other way, but there was no sign of the accomplice. Maybe they’re just – A sudden, thumping pain in Paul’s side drew a sharp intake of breath from him and forced him to drop to his knees. His hand fumbled to his stomach. Something was sticking out of his abdomen. Something metal. Searing white heat shot across the front of Paul’s body and he slumped sideways. He tried to cry out, but no sound came. DUNK! His head hit the ground, a pool of blood quickly spreading across the tarmac from beneath his coat like melting raspberry ice cream. Screams echoed across the square as tourists and locals alike all fled. A pair of polished black brogues entered Paul’s blurred eye-line and he felt a hand grab at his clenched fist, twisting his fingers until his palm opened and he released the USB stick. Sirens sounded, growing louder and louder. The light faded, the world receded, and in a blink he was consumed by darkness.
20
‘Mr Grant … Paul … can you hear me?’
Paul opened his eyes. A woman in a white coat was leaning over him. ‘It’s good to have you back,’ she said, sounding relieved.
‘Wha – ?’
‘Don’t try to speak. You’ve been through a long surgical procedure.’ The doctor leaned in closer. ‘You had us all a bit worried there for a while, but I think you’re going to be alright now.’ The faint smell of her perfume made Paul want to throw up. ‘What did they … the square?’ he asked, incoherently.
The doctor looked Paul in the eye. ‘You were shot by a crossbow, Mr Grant. The arrow penetrated your lower intestine and ruptured your bowel, causing quite a bit of internal bleeding. A nasty injury, but it could have been a lot worse.’
‘Who?’ Paul rasped.
‘The police will give you more details when you’re stronger. But for now,’ the doctor smiled, ‘you need to rest.’
‘I saw – ’
‘All in good time, Mr Grant,’ said the doctor. ‘Rest first.’
When Paul next opened his eyes Alice was sitting by his side. ‘Hello, you,’ she smiled, and leant in, kissing him on the forehead. ‘You are a worry, aren’t you?’
‘I was shot,’ said Paul, his voice still weak.
‘Shh,’ said Alice, stroking his forehead. ‘Don’t speak.’
‘Did they catch them?’
Alice stopped stroking. ‘Who?’
‘The two men in the square.’
‘You need to let yourself recover.’
‘They took the stick.’
‘What stick?’
‘There’s nothing on it.’ Paul shook his head.
‘You’re not making sense,’ said Alice. ‘You need to – ’
‘It’s not over,’ Paul interrupted. ‘I still have the master.’
Alice put her hand back on Paul’s forehead. ‘Shh,’ she soothed. ‘Get some rest.’ Paul closed his eyes. Within seconds he was gone again.
In the drug-induced blur beyond the bed someone was moving. A figure in white. As his eyes adjusted, he saw it was a woman. A nurse. She was in the dresser at the back of the room, shifting his clothes from one side of the rack to the other. He thumped the bed and she turned. She was wearing a surgical hat and mask, her eyes a glassy green. He pointed to the empty glass on the bedside table. She came over and grabbed his hand, forcing it beneath the sheet. He tried to resist but his strength was shot. The nurse pulled a syringe from her pocket and opened up the cannula on the back of his hand. He struggled, but she held him down and inserted the syringe into the socket. He wriggled in desperation, but her grip was too strong. Somehow he managed to release his other arm from under hers and reached for the call button. The nurse snatched at his hand and pulled it free, but not before he’d squeezed out a silent call to arms. And then everything went black again.
‘Are you sure it wasn’t a dream?’ the male nurse asked, re-filling Paul’s glass with water. ‘Those painkillers are pretty powerful. They make you see all sorts of shit.’ You’ve got a tattoo of a fucking unicorn on your arm, thought Paul. Why the fuck should I listen to you? He grabbed the glass and gulped the water down.
‘Steady,’ said the nurse. ‘You’re going to burst that catheter.’
‘It was real,’ Paul croaked. ‘She was here. She gave me something.’
The nurse took Paul’s hand and inspected the cannula. ‘Looks fine to me,’ he said.
‘She was trying to strangle me. That’s why I pressed the button.’
The nurse checked his watch. ‘Look, man, I need to go,’ he said. ‘I’ll be back later.’
‘I don’t feel safe,’ said Paul.
‘You’re disorientated,’ said the nurse. ‘It’s normal. You’re doing fine.’ And with that he backed out of the room. Paul could see him through the glass door talking with another nurse. They looked back towards him, flashing fake smiles. Who the fuck has a unicorn tattoo?
Paul reached down and touched his side. A sharp pain shot down his leg. Fuck. He felt cornered and trapped, his injuries too painful to
allow him to run. He might as well face it. He was going nowhere, at least for now.
‘Did they do this to you?’ Paul’s dad hovered over the bed like a praying mantis.
‘I don’t know,’ lied Paul, knowing the truth would send his dad into a tailspin.
‘I tell ye whit,’ said George. ‘Those bastards huvnae half crossed the fuckin line here.’
‘I don’t know if it was them,’ said Paul. ‘It might have been some neds having a laugh, maybe aiming for the tourists, you know?’
George wasn’t listening. ‘Whoever it wis is as good as deed in ma book,’ he said. ‘An ah’ve got friends who can help me find them.’
‘Just leave it, Dad,’ said Paul. ‘I can fight my own battles.’
‘You?’ scoffed George. ‘Ye couldnae fight yer wae oot ae a duvet.’
‘All I’m saying is – ’ The sentence was never finished. George flung a hand over his son’s mouth as Paul’s mum, Jean, swung through the door and approached the bed. ‘The nurse said she’d get me a bowl for these grapes,’ she said, putting them on the bedside table.
‘I’m sure they’ve got better things to do than hunt doon a bloody bowl, Jean,’ huffed George, swiftly removing his hand from a gasping Paul’s mouth.
Jean turned to Paul. ‘Aw, son,’ she said, ‘we were really worried about you.’ She leaned in to kiss him and accidentally brushed his side, causing him to wince. ‘Oh, I’m sorry, son,’ she said, quickly stepping back.
‘Jesus Christ, Jean!’ said George. ‘Finish him aff, why don’t ye!’
‘Who told you I was here?’ asked Paul.
‘Oh, it was a nice young lady called … whit wis it, George?’
‘Alice Lowe,’ said George, looking increasingly uncomfortable in the sanitised surroundings of the ward. ‘Never forget names. Part o’ the trainin’.’ He turned to Paul. ‘Aboot time ye hud a click,’ he winked. ‘Ah wis beginnin to think ye’d turned.’