The Exchange

by Park, J. R.

  The Exchange

  J. R. Park

  Other books by J. R. Park:

  TERROR BYTE

  PUNCH

  UPON WAKING

  Further books by the Sinister Horror Company:

  THE BAD GAME – Adam Millard

  CLASS THREE – Duncan P. Bradshaw

  CLASS FOUR: THOSE WHO SURVIVE – Duncan P. Bradshaw

  CELEBRITY CULTURE – Duncan P. Bradshaw

  PRIME DIRECTIVE – Duncan P. Bradshaw

  BURNING HOUSE – Daniel Marc Chant

  MALDICION – Daniel Marc Chant

  MR. ROBESPIERRE – Daniel Marc Chant

  BITEY BACHMAN – Kayleigh Marie Edwards

  GODBOMB! – Kit Power

  BREAKING POINT – Kit Power

  MARKED – Stuart Park

  THE BLACK ROOM MANUSCRIPTS VOL 1 – Various

  THE BLACK ROOM MANUSCRIPTS VOL 2 – Various

  Visit JRPark.co.uk and SinisterHorrorCompany.com for further information on these and other coming titles.

  The Exchange

  First Published in 2016

  Copyright © 2016 J. R. Park

  The right of J. R. Park to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without prior written permission of the author, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.

  Cover art by Samuel Lindup.

  SamuelLindup.wordpress.com

  JRPark.co.uk

  Acknowledgements

  Thanks to Stuart Park, Jorge Wiles, Dunk Bradshaw, Steph Clitheroe and Tom Dando for providing much needed feedback.

  Additional thanks to Sam Lindup for the cover art, Zoe Crocker for giving me a place to write and keeping me fed, Kayleigh Ghani for forcing the unicorn issue, Steph Clitheroe (again) for the photography and encouragement, Aneta Buchwald for the translation, Dave Huggins for the beer and chat about police equipment, Thought Forms, Mugstar, Get The Blessing and Vena Cava for the inspiration, and Dan & Dunk for refusing to let me give up.

  For Dunk and Dan.

  You just wouldn’t let it lie.

  This is all your fault.

  The idea for this book came to me whilst I was attending a Thought Forms album launch gig at The Exchange venue in Bristol.

  As I watched the bands play I thought what a great soundtrack they would make for a movie. Within these pages you find the novelisation of the film that played in my head that night.

  As I wrote the book I devised an unofficial soundtrack from the bands I’d witnessed that evening. I believe that each song in this soundtrack helps to flesh out the book’s character and tone.

  Boddah - Vena Cava

  Black Fountain - Mugstar

  OC DC - Get The Blessing

  Axis Modulator - Mugstar

  Ghost Mountain You And Me - Thought Forms

  Burn Me Clean - Thought Forms

  Industry - Thought Forms

  The Unnameable - Get The Blessing

  Sunburnt Impendance Machine - Mugstar

  Beyond The Sun - Mugstar

  Little Ease - Get The Blessing

  Where should a story start?

  Exactly what is the defining moment that marks the place to begin?

  Every attempt at finding a beginning will see tendrils of previous tales pulling at its circumstance, their influence shaping what is yet to be. And if we trace those back we find even more, each one a star warping each other’s path with their orbits. A cosmic swirl of action and reaction that forms one perpetually moving matrix. A lattice of experience that defines our lives.

  But in order to tell any tale we must pick that moment.

  We must choose a beginning…

  ‘Please don’t start.’

  Eleanor scowled at Jake as he continued to berate her, prematurely halting her own verbal assault before it had a chance to build momentum.

  ‘Now isn’t the time,’ Jake turned back to the threatening group of people stood in front of him and placed a black briefcase on the ground at his feet.

  The gold metal trim still shone even in the low light of this grey Sunday afternoon, suggesting the case to be new, but the leather was slashed and the locks dented.

  Jake was six foot and thin in a way that can only be maintained by youth. His coarse, black hair blew across his face and thick rimmed glasses. Blood trickled from a cut across the bridge of his nose and dripped onto his dark green hoodie. The wound obviously fresh.

  Beside him stood two friends. Eleanor was a few inches taller than Jake, her long, dark hair framed a once beautiful face, now contorted through anger and fear. Her summer dress was patterned with an intricate weave of flowers, its joyous design seeming at odds with the scene before them.

  Sam stood at Jake’s other side, and although he seemed dwarfed in size to his companions, his muscular frame and hardened features made him the most imposing of the three. Sam ground his teeth in anger, his jaw sliding back and forth behind a gruff, knotted beard. A crimson splash of blood coated his arms and chest although there was no sign of injury to his stocky torso. He clenched his fists as he seethed with a simmering violence.

  Opposite the trio stood a woman and three men, all dressed in expensive looking business suits. Despite the cloudy day, sunglasses shielded their eyes.

  Their leader, Scullin, was of equal height to Jake and stood at the forefront of his group. His muscular body filled his dark, grey suit; his mass straining against the quality wool of his jacket as he surveyed the teenagers that stood before him with an emotionless expression. The white cuff of his shirt poked out from his sleeve revealing a dark red stain.

  Behind him stood King, blood was smeared down his cheeks and splattered across his light grey suit, the mess made worse from a failed attempt to wipe it off. Duell was to his right, the yellow tie that peeked out from between his pinstripe blazer matched his ruffles of blonde hair that danced in the breeze above a cold, uncaring face.

  To their left was Cross. The black colour of her jacket and skirt concealed any mark that might be on them, but her tied back, blonde hair showed flecks of red dotted amongst it and a trickle of scarlet liquid ran down her thigh, pooling at the base of her stiletto heel. She pulled tightly on some rope that bound a captive girl’s hands. The girl lay sobbing at Cross’s feet. Her wavy brown hair stuck to her face through tears and her blue denim dress was filthy from the dusty ground.

  Both groups faced each other in a moment of silence.

  They stood in the centre of a building site on the edge of the city. Previously it had been a neglected wasteland; a graveyard of a more industrious age before the economic bite of recession had ripped out the jugular of commerce. But as the developed world now moved into a new period of financial growth, piles of rubble and large craters dotted the expansive area. Half-finished piping networks lay strewn next to deposits of gravel and huge holes that were dug ready for the foundations of an eagerly anticipated new retail complex. Clumps of bramble, thistle and nettle sporadically poked their way through the layers of stone, dust and dirt, making the place look like an urban desert scene.

  Old buildings littered the site like a dilapidated village, ready to be knocked down. Damp, rot and the elements had laid their withering claim, caving roofs in, turning up floors and driving cracks into the walls. These structures had died years ago, only remnants of their shells remained, waiting to be d
estroyed.

  Of late this place had been a hive of activity. A crew of workman arrived every day to complete the demolition and new construction. But today it remained quiet, free of hard hats and high-vis jackets. Today the workforce remained at home enjoying Sunday pursuits of their own leisure, leaving the place steeped in a brooding silence.

  Muted sounds of far off city traffic drifted through the air. Gently building winds whipped across the site as the sky throbbed in an unsettled grey, waiting for something to happen.

  ‘You came without guns?’ Jake called out to Scullin, breaking the silence.

  ‘As promised,’ Scullin replied, holding his monstrously large palms out to show they were empty. ‘You made your threat very succinctly.’

  ‘That’s right. Our man’s hidden; watching you,’ he restated the threat in an attempt to reassure himself. His cheek throbbed, a reminder of the hard knuckles possessed by his opponent. ‘If there’s any funny business he’ll make a phone call and have this place swarming with cops.’

  The threat was empty. He knew if the cops came they’d make a run for it, disappearing and taking Laura with them. If that happened he might never see his girlfriend again. He prayed they didn’t see through his bluff.

  Eleanor bored angry eyes into the back of Jake’s skull, still feeling some resentment over the argument they’d had whilst walking to the agreed meeting place. She was furious they had gotten into this situation, but deep down she knew he was right, this was not a time to be fighting amongst themselves. They could work out where the blame lay once they got out of this.

  If they got out of this.

  ‘There’s the case,’ Jake pointed to the battered item at his feet.

  Scullin looked at it with a quizzical expression.

  ‘You were expecting more?’ Sam snorted.

  ‘Sam, don’t,’ Eleanor placed her long, slender fingers tenderly but nervously on his shoulder in an attempt to calm him.

  The red stains across Sam’s body were testament to the lack of limits his aggression knew. Despite his earlier heroic act to save them, he worried her. Eleanor’s stomach tightened as she thought back to the sickening atrocity she had witnessed in one of the crumbling buildings, but was glad to feel Sam relax slightly; easing his shoulder into her gentle touch, even though his brow stayed furrowed.

  Both groups continued to eye each other with a patient intensity.

  Subtly breaking the stand-off, Cross smiled with vicious delight as she dug her long nails into the skin of the girl that lay at her feet. The light wind stifled the cries of her hapless victim as Cross’s blue painted talons sunk into the soft flesh of the girl’s wrists.

  ‘Laura!’ Jake turned to the distraught girl, ‘I’m so sorry, Laura. We didn’t mean to leave you honey, we didn’t mean-’

  ‘I can’t believe you, Jake,’ Laura wailed. ‘I can’t believe you did this.’

  Jake tried to continue but his words broke down to barely suppressed sobs of regret, mirroring those of his girlfriend. Scullin’s contemptuous laugh cut through the boy’s weak pleas for forgiveness.

  ‘How quickly the bonds of love can unravel when faced with death,’ Scullin’s voice felt as rough as gravel as it echoed through Jake’s body, yet it managed to hold a tonal quality that provided an edge of soothing eloquence. The almost impossible juxtaposition made the young man shudder as he listened to every syllable. ‘You’re so young. You know nothing. You have yet to truly understand what really holds everything together.’

  ‘Shut your fucking mouth,’ Sam called out, scratching his beard in irritation and begging for a fight. ‘It’s a little dark for sunglasses ain’t it? Did you lot leave your guide dogs at home?’

  ‘These sunglasses are for your protection,’ Scullin answered back with a smile. His voice remained calm, at odds with the threat in his words. ‘You don’t want to see my eyes. There’s so much rage in them right now you’ll shit your pants like the little boy you are.’

  Sam broke from Eleanor’s soft grip and motioned forward, enraged by this insult but glad of the justification. Cross reacted by pulling Laura closer to her, tightening the ropes around her wrists and digging her nails in again. Laura squealed in pain. Jake put his hand out signalling his friend to stop. Sam reluctantly obeyed, growling under his breath.

  ‘We can take them,’ Sam muttered so as only audible to Jake.

  ‘We can’t take the chance,’ his friend replied. ‘We’re lucky Laura’s still alive. I’m not rolling the dice a second time.’

  Sam started to argue back but their private conversation was cut short by an unnerving voice that sliced through the strengthening winds.

  ‘You’ve caused us a great deal of trouble,’ Scullin bellowed before turning to his blood splattered colleague in the light grey suit. ‘King, check the case,’ he ordered.

  They were pushing the boundaries. Testing the threats.

  ‘Not so fast,’ Jake replied, causing King to halt his progress. A sliver of courage returned to Jake’s tone, beating back the panic of a ruse unravelled. ‘Give us the girl.’ He squeezed his fists and pointed angrily at Scullin, ‘Give me back Laura.’

  ‘Oh really?’ mocked Scullin. ‘And what are you going to do? Are you going to stop us?’

  Jake narrowed his eyes and, without breaking gaze with the man stood opposite, kicked the briefcase. It fell on its side and in doing so swung a chain round that was attached to the handle. The metallic links flew through the air in an arc before crashing into the dusty earth, revealing the end to be wrapped around the freshly mutilated remains of a severed hand. Its wrist grotesquely ended with a ragged and bloody stump, still dribbling claret liquid from the recent dismemberment.

  ‘Don’t forget,’ Jake threatened through clenched teeth, ‘we’ve still got one of your men.’

  Hidden in the darkness, inside the basement of one of the derelict buildings a man sat, slumped forward on a battered, old chair. The ropes that bound him ran tightly round his torso, crushing creases into his wool suit. Muted daylight tinted by the coming storm penetrated the cracks in the ceiling but was quickly engulfed by the blackness that surrounded the unconscious prisoner. His dark silhouette sunk forward whilst blood dripped from his head, running off the sunglasses on his face and forming tiny rivulets on the floor. His arms were tied behind his back whilst more blood poured from the sleeve of his left arm. A gory stump protruded from his suit jacket, dangling pieces of mangled flesh and torn skin where his hand should be. By his feet lay the remains of a hacksaw blade, snapped from its frame and discarded after the pressures of its grisly work.

  Knight slowly regained consciousness as he remained prisoner, tied to the long neglected piece of furniture, left over from a time when this was a busy office. His one remaining hand felt the cold, rusted pole of the chair leg and he squeezed it as he collected his thoughts. Gently his fingers searched out for his horrific wound and carefully he prodded the end of his arm, probing the flesh to understand the extent of his injury. In the distance he heard a noise, the faint sound of voices, and without raising his head he broke into a smile.

  ‘Come on,’ Ollie cursed his phone as he checked the display then waved it in the air.

  He placed it against his ear to find the same result as before: silence. He swung against the frame as he hung in the doorway of one of the disused buildings, his long, black hair catching in his beard as he talked out loud.

  ‘Nothing, just nothing,’ he protested. ‘It’s connecting then loses signal again. Like it’s coming in waves. Bloody network. There’s no calling the cops if this goes all wrong. So much for Plan B.’

  He put the phone back in his pocket and kicked the crumbling doorway in frustration. Small rocks fell from the stonework, dislodged by the impact. Idly scratching the tattoo that trailed up his arm, an abstract portrait of Marilyn Munroe, Ollie turned his back on the old construction and looked across the desolate building site. He’d never appreciated the size of this wasteland before. He’d ridden pas
t it many times on his bike, but only now, stood in the confines of the security fence, did he realise just how vast it was.

  Across the other side of the site he could see the hole in the fence where they had made their accidental entrance, and a short distance beyond was Sam’s smashed up van. They had hit the fence with some force when the driver lost control. Luckily it managed to punch a hole straight through the steel links, but had left the van unusable. The lights were smashed, the front grill buckled and the white paint was scratched by the torn fencing, leaving a silver scarring etched along the bodywork. Not that it would have lasted much longer anyway. The vehicle was already dying before they’d crashed into the perimeter of the yet to be Oracle shopping centre. Ollie scanned his eyes across the ravished bodywork, making out six bullet holes. It had felt like more when they were inside the vehicle making their getaway, but that didn’t include the ones that hit the tyres. They had felt the tyres blow at eighty miles per hour and now the only evidence of their existence were scraps of shredded rubber clinging to the buckled, asymmetrical wheels. The petrol tank had also been hit and the flammable liquid was still draining out underneath the pitiful wreck. It was those kind of expert crack shots from the lot in suits that had forced them to ditch their vehicle and seek shelter.

  Even when the tyres were shot out, Sam had wrestled with the van through the busy traffic. He’d managed to give them the slip as he took chances through lights and busy lanes, but as metal rims wore onto the tarmac he lost control and crashed. Their pursuers eventually caught up, but at least it had given them time to hide.