by Gus Ross
The police, I presumed it had to have been the police, had effected some sort of temporary repair to my front door; it looked like the broken lock housing had been pushed back together in some sort of ramshackle fashion and was being held together by some rather crudely applied nails, presumably because the screw fixings were busted. A strong gust of wind would probably have put paid to the whole construction and sent the door flapping open wildly, but thankfully it was still closed when I got to it.
I had half expected to find plod parked outside, or perhaps inside, but there was no one about. I suppose the chance of being burgled twice in the space of two days was unlikely, so they had left the scene after their O’ Grade carpentry lesson. I was keen to find out exactly what was happening in respect of said burglary but I had had my fill of plod for the time being and my wife would be home soon. She was always better at sorting out this kind of stuff, not that she had much experience of break-ins, dead bodies, and her husband’s arrest…God, what a mess.
The driver of the white van made a phone call before driving from the car park. It would be the last call he ever made and it had not been a pleasant one. The two recipients of the call had taken an earful; he did not accept sloppiness and, from what he had just heard, the piece of work they had recently completed sounded like amateur hour. He would take care of the situation properly when he returned.
The articulated lorry would later be found to have had brake problems, something to do with improperly attached hydraulic lines and an Eastern European driver who spoke very little English and read even less, although perhaps that was all too convenient.
The unremarkable white transit van had left this green and pleasant land amid a cacophony of screeching, tearing metal, as the huge weight of the artic’ ploughed into the driver’s side, carrying it for a good hundred yards or so and transforming it into what it should have been years earlier; a pile of scrap metal.
The driver inside would eventually be identified by dental records, but what was later discovered would start a whole other level of enquiry.
Chapter 5: King Kong, Elton and Old Shark Eyes.
I heard the noise from upstairs and immediately had one thought quickly followed by another.
The first was the obvious one; my wife was home, but then her car was not in the driveway. The second was that perhaps plod had decided to stay the night, but that was also quickly dismissed. No squad car, no lights on. The third thought was not a pleasant one, but it hardly had time to form properly when I felt the whack on the back of my head. It sent me sprawling forwards and only the soft white circular rug, that sat in front of the antique sideboard I had picked up for fifty quid at an auction, prevented me from improving my looks on the hardwood floor.
But the blow had not been as expert as it might, I was down but not out. The figure from behind was now almost upon me, no doubt intent on finishing the job, and as I turned my head I could see the motion of a lifting arm cut into the darkness. It was holding something, a cosh, or a bat, or something equally liable to crush my skull. Instinctively I rolled to my left and the descending blow whistled past my right ear and crashed into the floor.
Where the next move came from I will never know; the head of the figure that was intent on pulverising me was now no more than a foot from where I lay and I could smell the foul concoction of vodka and strong cigarettes on its breath. In an instant I brought my forehead up from the ground in a sideswiping movement that any great centre forward would have been proud of. It caught my assailant perfectly in the temple area and I could hear the sickening crush of bone against soft tissue. I didn’t feel a thing (adrenaline most likely), but there were now two bodies lying on the hardwood and one was no longer moving.
I had no idea how unlikely it was to have landed such a knockout blow, but I hardly had time to congratulate myself as now there were footsteps coming hard and fast down the staircase. Jesus, this was like a scene out of one of those Jackie Chan movies, or whatever. But I was on my feet and running for the door.
“Not likely mate.”
The hand that grabbed my shoulder was big and belonged to someone considerably stronger than yours truly, and my break for freedom was short lived.
My body went sideways and down again as I was yanked off my feet.
Sometimes in life you are lucky, sometimes in life you are not so lucky, call it chance, fate, poetic justice, whatever, but that day someone was on my side; I just didn’t know it yet.
For the second time I hit the floor and I had a pretty bad feeling that the old head-butt routine was unlikely to be successful twice. I scrambled backwards on all fours like some kind of inverted crab, desperately trying to get out of harm’s way, and got about as far as the living room before I realised that I had nowhere to go and that now I really was about to get clobbered. The dark frame in the doorway must have been over six feet tall, but from where I lay looking up it might as well have been King Kong who was about to turn my lights out; he was huge.
And then old lady luck played her hand and dealt me an ace.
In what was, in my mind at least, likely to be my last act on God’s great earth, and, given the previous days carry on, had an element of comic genius that I was clearly oblivious to, my hand reached out and grabbed, of all things, my brolly.
Say what you like about the good old British weather, laugh at the lack of coolness of a suit with an umbrella desperately trying not to get wet, tell me they are for women who don’t want to get their newly coiffured hairdo ruined, or golfers who really should know better than to play that stupid game in the rain, but a trusty brolly is now up there in my list of life’s great necessities.
I grabbed it and thrust it with all my might and, as the dealer of aces would have it, the four inch metal spike at the bottom found soft tissue, but not just any soft tissue; it had found the right eye of King Kong. You might think that the disgusting squelching sound and outrageous scream of pain that followed would have been enough to stop most people at that stage, but it doesn’t work that way. I shoved it even harder than before, and I swear I could hear the eye socket pop as the tip of my brolly rammed its way into the frontal lobes of King Kong’s brain (assuming he had not previously been lobotomised). He fell backwards, dead.
Assailant number one was still motionless on the floor and I was beginning to wonder if I had managed to kill both of them, when he let out a muffled kind of groan. Without a seconds pause I was out of the door like a cat with a firework tied to its tail, but I did not get very far.
This time the blow to my head was successful.
“Get him into the car, quickly. They won’t be far behind us. I’ll take care of this mess.”
Had I been in any way conscious I might have complained about being unceremoniously dumped into yet another car that was not of my choice, but that would probably have got me another smack round the head, so in a strange sort of way it was good that I was out of it for a bit.
Taking care of the mess was one way to put how Stern Anderson dealt with my little welcoming party. My friends plod (the local ones this time), would find a blazing inferno in place of my home and eventually would recover the remains of two people who were burned beyond all recognition. The assumption would be that it was me and my wife who had fallen foul of an unfortunate accident; had the old CSI boys (or whatever served as the UK equivalent), been involved, they would have discovered that the blaze had been too hot and ferocious to have started accidently, and that each of the two bodies had been shot once through the head at very close range. Not forgetting that one had also had his brain punctured by the tip of a golf brolly. But local plod and the fire investigation officers were not CSI.
Stern took one look into the back of the moving Land Rover and then turned his head back towards the road, “I don’t think he will be coming round for a bit yet. I hope I didn’t hit him too hard.”
“I’m surprised you managed to get him at all given the speed he came through the door.”
Stern la
ughed. His target had been moving pretty quickly.
They had been driving for some thirty minutes or so and he had been keeping a close eye on the rear view mirror for most of it, but was now beginning to relax.
“No one tailing us then Sternie?” Steve Alexander had a few less years on him than Stern, but he was still long enough in the tooth to sense his partners every reaction, even when there were few visible signs.
“You know me too well Steve.”
It was Steve’s turn to laugh. It is amazing what a small release in tension can do for your sense of humour, although both had previously had more than a good chuckle about the demise of assailant two. A giant of a man brought down by the humble brolly, it was like something out of a badly written spy novel.
They had been keeping to the B-roads wherever possible, and it was now well past dark outside. A slight drizzle had decided to make an appearance and the smear on the windscreen was neatly batted aside by the rubber of the wipers in intermittent swipes, each accompanied by a faint little squeaking sound.
“I hate that. It should either rain properly or not at all,” said Stern, who loved nothing better than to have a good grump at the British weather.
He was a heavy set man, fair hair his only gentle looking feature. In fact, the thick blond mop was somewhat odd looking in the context of his hard angular face, as if he had borrowed one of Elton John’s wigs and forgotten to take it off.
Steve, on the other hand, was a wiry looking character, with dark eyes that kind of looked a bit like a sharks; murky and deep, and, to be honest, more than a little scary. I have seen that look before, generally in people who have just been sent down for a very long time, or are currently on a most wanted list. Yip, my semi comatose body was currently being transported to goodness knows where by an Elton John look alike and Charles Manson; thanks goodness for blissful ignorance.
Sternie swung the trusty Land Rover off the road onto what looked like a seldom used dirt track and immediately cut the speed back to about 20 mph (presumably to avoid smacking his Elton wig off the roof of the vehicle as it rocked and bounced its way through the darkness). The track continued for about a mile, with the severity of the potholes seemingly increasing as it went. Eventually the vehicle headlights picked out a rather sad looking gatepost that marked the entrance to Swithins farm.
The Swithins had long since left their farm to the forces of nature …around about the time that crazy, corrupt, self-obsessed organisation called the EU started to interfere with the pricing of commodities and, coupled with the friendly smiling retail forces of the world’s greatest evil, the Supermarket, destroyed any remaining margin available to small time farming.
The main farm building in front of us had stood the test of time pretty well considering, but it was clearly a long way from habitable and, unfortunately, was ideal for what was about to unfold.
The drizzle had now turned to rain and at least Sternie was grateful for that as he parked up in front of the house and killed the engine.
“Time for work Steve, reckon we won’t need long to crack this one.” Sternie was already out of the door and moving towards the farmhouse.
“Just need to be careful not to leave any brollies lying about,” came back Steve and both men laughed.
You could probably not even begin to imagine my shock, but go on and have a try anyway. I woke from my enforced nap to the joy of an ice cold bucket of water over my (throbbing) head, to some sort of weird Nordic version of Elton John and a man with the eyes of a shark. I am pretty sure I let out a scream and that was probably why I now also had a throbbing cheek, courtesy of Elton, and was currently located on the floor. I was in some kind of ramshackle kitchen with the yellowy light from a prehistoric looking gas lamp only adding to the nightmarish atmosphere, and yes, my hands were tied uncomfortably tight behind me.
I presumed that the bare wooden chair that lay beside me was where I had been sitting moments earlier. Soon I was hauled back onto it. The thoughts racing through my furtive imagination were doing little to help my current shock filled state. I wanted to scream again but knew what would follow and decided against it, but I could not stop the warm flow that was currently working its way down my inside leg.
This was the scene from Reservoir Dogs, you know the one where he gets his ear cut off and is doused with petrol etc, etc, except this was not Hollywood.
“Oh come on, Mr Richards. We have not even started yet and there you go messing up the floor.” Steve shook his head in mock disgust.
Of the two men, he was the one who enjoyed this part the most. Sternie was more interested in the technical stuff, the clinical stuff, not to mention the planning, but Steve had that streak that only comes to those with no life behind their eyes. They are the ones you really should cross the road to avoid.
“Now we can start this the old fashioned way and ask you some questions, or we can go straight to the torture bit if you prefer and then see what you want to tell us.” Had Steve been on his own then there would not have been any discussion.
“Please, I have no idea what this is about. I didn’t mean to kill your friends. I don’t know anything. Please.” My face was beyond begging.
“Friends?” laughed Sternie, “they were not our friends. You actually made things a bit easier for us, and some nice work with that brolly. I would have been proud of that one. What do you think Steve?”
Now say what you will, but even I know it is a pretty bad sign when your captors start to address each other in first name terms. It’s the golden rule of baddies, never use real names, unless of course you have no intention of letting your captives live. I felt a further warm sensation in my pants.
“Ok Mr Richards, here are the ground rules: 1/ I only ask things once and you get one chance to answer me. No answer, then you get a smack. 2/ Give me the wrong answer and you get another smack. 3/ There is no three. Got it? Good.”
Sternie had decided not to get involved for the moment and was busy twiddling with something that looked like it might have been a radio in a previous life.
It was about then that I began to question whether any of this was really happening and then something even more bizarre happened.
I had fully expected to suffer more pain than I had ever endured in my life and of course I would spill the beans on any subject they wished, regardless of whether I had any real beans to spill or not. But just as shark-eyed Steve was about to inflict the obligatory softener, Sternie pulled what looked like a small revolver from somewhere on his hip, and proceeded to put a cap (it’s what they say in all the best gangster movies), in the side of his sadistic sidekicks head. The warm wet sensation, as his blood splattered across my face, was not unlike the previous warm wet sensations I had just experienced.
I subsequently threw up as Steve slumped to the bare floor.
“Never did like that bastard much. I swear if I’d heard him whistle one more Elton John song I’d have plugged him there and then regardless.”
The fact that the Sternie was clearly aware of his unfortunate barnet would normally have had me in fits of the giggles, but things had gone a bit past that stage. I was struggling to hold anything together. He untied my hands and threw me a dirty rag that was lying near the old Belfast sink.
“Here, clean yourself up man. You look like shit.”
The rag was probably filthier than anything in the room, but I would have wiped my face with steel wool if it meant getting the blood off of me.
“Please. What is going on? Please. Who are you people? What do you want?” I could have rattled off a thousand other questions; I was in such a state of shock that I didn’t even know what I was saying anymore.
“All in good time Mr Richards. First we need to get out of here and quick.”
“My name is Dave. Please. My name is Dave.” I was sick of all this Mr Richards stuff; it was bad enough with Plod, but now my would-be assassins / kidnappers / secret agents or whatever these people were, were at it, and I needed to be call
ed by the name my mother gave to me. Don’t ask me why, I just did.
“Ok Dave, now if you’re all done, let’s go.”
We were back in the Land Rover and off without even as much as a cursory backwards glance at old shark eyes, who was clearly dead before he had even hit the floor. Sternie had not even considered trying to cover his tracks this time, presumably time really was a pressing factor, or perhaps a blazing inferno in a disused farm building would have had pretty much the same effect as an Indian smoke signal.
“Hi guys we’re over here, come on, get a move on, we’re just about to leave…”
Sternie had said nothing for the first few miles or so, but clearly he was concerned about being followed; I swear I have no idea how he kept to the road the amount of time he spent looking in the rear view mirror. But eventually, after what seemed like a lot of unnecessary detours, his obsession with what was behind him started to ease.
“Ok, I think we are good for now,” said Sternie, all matter of fact.
Good for now! I was sitting in my own piss, bloodstained, battered and bruised and having just added kidnap and attempted torture to the growing list of the last few day’s shenanigans. Good for now! I would hate to see what this guy called a bad day. I simply nodded. My body wanted to sleep, but my head wouldn’t let it; I stared out of the windscreen at the smeary rain and the occasional headlights that came towards us out of the dark.
“Who are you? Are you going to kill me?” I had already figured the answer to the latter question, but it just came out anyway.
“My name is Stern, but you can call me Sternie if you like, and no, I am not going to kill you, I need you alive.”
I suppose it was a relief to hear the words out loud, but Sternie had not exactly given up much in the way of detail. I decided not to push things; it felt like the less I knew the safer I might be.