by Ols Schaber
Forty-Eight
Geraldine’s eyes were bulging, her body seizing and convulsing, fighting for air as O’Neil tightened the grip on her neck. She was still gagged and strapped to the chair which was positioned sideways on to the door. Suddenly her blurry peripheral vision caught sight of another person in the room. She couldn’t work out if she was hallucinating due to the lack of oxygen to her brain. The man dropped something on the wooden floor with a loud thud, and O’Neil spun around, releasing the grip on her neck. As Geraldine’s vision cleared she could see the man properly. He wore the usual beige mac, black trousers and rounded brown glasses. The Squirrel.
‘Who the fuck are you?’ said O'Neil.
The man stood there surveying the scene. O’Neil turned to Geraldine. ‘One of your boyfriends? Oh no, of course not. You don’t like cocks. Unless you like to jump the fence every so often.’ He glared at Geraldine, as if trying to buy some time for this unexpected intrusion, and that somehow she would give him some idea of who it was. He stepped closer to the man. ‘No, you don’t look like boyfriend material to me.’
‘Am I interrupting something?’ The Squirrel said.
Geraldine’s body regained some control. What was he doing here? And why wasn’t he in a hurry to rescue her? And what the fuck was he doing wearing a baseball cap? ‘I’m sorry, and you are?’
‘I might ask you the same.’ O’Neil took another step towards the Squirrel, clenching his fists.
‘Police.’ The Squirrel took his baseball cap off.
‘Right. Well, as it happens, so am I.’ O’Neil looked down at his captive. ‘Is this idiot something to do with you?’ Geraldine shook her head. Who could say where this was heading.
‘Prove it.’ O’Neil demanded.
The Squirrel showed the palm of his left hand and reached slowly into his jacket pocket with his right.
O’Neil tensed and grabbed the first thing to hand, a heavy bronze statue of two naked women embracing, to use as a weapon. It had been a present to Geraldine from her first lover and she cringed at the sight of a man like O’Neil touching it.
‘CID. Put it down,’ said the Squirrel, holding up his badge. Geraldine squinted to see if she could catch the name on the ID. She’d bet herself he was called Colin.
O’Neil turned away for a moment and then suddenly rushed at the Squirrel with the statue. But the Squirrel had anticipated the attack, and in one swift move snatched O’Neil’s arm with the cast, bending it behind his back. He squirmed with pain. The statue bounced and hit the floor with a deep twang. ‘That fucking hurts, you cunt!’ Geraldine was impressed with the speed of the Squirrel’s reactions, there was obviously more to him than she knew.
‘Where’s your badge?’ The Squirrel said calmly into O’Neil’s ear.
‘Fucking lost it.’ O’Neil took a few breaths to manage his pain. ‘Waiting for a new one. Go on… call it in. And when you do, you’ll find out who I am, and that I am the senior ranking officer here.’
Geraldine would have smiled if she could as she knew exactly who had his badge: Rebwar.
‘So if you are who and what you say you are, would you please explain what you are doing here? Torturing a female police officer. Not exactly standard working procedure. Is it?’ Squirrel pushed O’Neil’s arm further up his back. Geraldine was blinking furiously, what the hell was going on here?
‘I outrank you, fucker!’ O’Neil gave in to the pain and yelped.
Geraldine was suddenly aware of a gentle knocking on the open door. Standing there was an elegantly dressed man, expensive suit and leather brogues. He’d used his gun to knock. Without a word he took a silencer from his jacket pocket and fitted it to the gun, twisting it on with his black leather gloves. He had white hair cut in a razor sharp military style, thin black moustache and a chiselled jaw. ‘Please untie her.’ His smooth reassuring voice was low but powerful.
The Squirrel handcuffed O’Neil who opened his mouth to say something, but before he could say a word, he saw that the silenced gun was now pointing at his head. The Squirrel cut Geraldine free. As the gag came off she took massive breaths and tried to calm herself. She rubbed her bruised and irritated skin, deeply marked by the cable ties. Before the two men could do anything to stop her Geraldine was on her feet.
‘You fucker!’ She exploded with rage and launched herself at O’Neil punching him in the face. Though his hands were cuffed, he managed to shoulder barge her and Geraldine fell on the floor near to the statue. The Squirrel tried to restrain her but she slid from his grasp. She lifted the statue and brought it down on O’Neil’s head. He stumbled back into the wall and slid down it unconscious, leaving a trail of blood on the white wall. She turned to the Squirrel still holding the now bloody statue. ‘What the fuck is going on here? This is my flat.’
The Squirrel combed his hair back with his hands and looked at the other man.
‘We need to talk,’ the man with the gun said.
‘Fucking right we need to talk,’ Geraldine said. ‘I’ve been tortured by a fucking bent police officer. This is not what I signed up for.’
‘Please calm down.’ The man pointed his gun at her.
‘Don’t you point that thing at me. Whoever you are. What are you doing here, and what’s with the bag?’ Geraldine went over to have look at the bag but the Squirrel stopped her. The smell of his overpowering aftershave made her feel sick as she stared into his dark eyes. She tried to push him out of the way. ‘Don’t touch me! This has gone far enough. Are you both Plan B?’
‘Miss, you need to calm down and listen.’ The man with the gun went to the door, closed and locked it. ‘I’m the Fox, and I’ve come here to tidy up. OK?’
‘No, no! Not even close to fucking OK! I’ve fucking lost my partner, Rebwar is missing and there’s still a murderer running around cutting people up, and from where I’m standing fuck all is being done to catch him. So no, this is not OK!’ Geraldine was close to tears but her anger took over again. ‘Get the fuck out of my flat.’
The man stood there, not flinching.
‘Now.’ She was shaking.
‘Are you asking for a termination of our agreement?’
‘For fuck sake, don’t you understand? This has gone too far. People are being killed.’
Geraldine crossed her arms, aware she was on thin ice.
‘May I remind you, you are still in debt to us,’ the Fox said. ‘You forfeited any rights by agreeing to work with us. I understand you are angry and have been through some trauma. I’m sorry about that. Really sorry. But you need to calm down.’
Geraldine could feel her pain come back, emotional and physical. Her eyes welled up at the thought of Zara and she looked at the statue she realised was still in her hand. It was so beautiful and tender, the two figures melting into each other. She ran her fingers over the smooth metal, trying to find some comfort. The Squirrel came over to her and she thought for a moment he was going to hug her. She gave him a look that said, don’t even think about it. He went to the kitchen instead to get her a glass of water. Geraldine knew this was her chance to tell them what she knew.
‘We need to find Rebwar. He was setting up this guy we think is doing the organ smuggling, I was supposed to meet him. O’Neil is involved. I just don’t have the evidence yet.’ Her phone buzzed somewhere in the flat, O’Neil must have put it somewhere. She followed the noise and found it in the kitchen bin. She picked off a cold squashed tea bag and wiped the screen. The Fox and Squirrel were watching her carefully as she listened to her messages. Geraldine winced when she heard the first voicemail, Rebwar was angry with her. But she couldn’t help but let out a ‘Yes!’ to the next one. ‘Rebwar’s got him, he’s got the guy. Gibson. Caught him red-handed, trying to sell a heart’. She gulped at the thought of whose heart it was. The two men looked at each other.
‘Where are they?’ The Fox asked.
‘He didn’t say, but I think I know where Rebwar’s taken him. He said he was going to ‘interview’ him.’
/>
Forty-Nine
He parked at the back of the building. This time there were no other vehicles. The wind was stirring up a swirling mix of leaves and rubbish. Doors and windows rattled and scaffolding pipes clanged into each other. It was like a ghost ship had been left to rot on a desert island. He opened the door of the van and hauled out the now conscious Gibson, his hands and ankles still tightly fastened. Rebwar used a rusty Stanley knife to cut through the ones around his ankles. He’d made a separate chain of ties around his knees so he couldn’t run.
‘What is this place?’ Gibson’s woozy voice whispered.
‘Nowhere. This way.’ Rebwar gestured with his pistol.
He led his captive to the room they’d used to ‘interview’ Stefan. It still had all the basic rotten furniture. He shut the door and made Gibson sit on the same metal chair as Stefan had. Gibson still looked out of it, so Rebwar went to get the camera that had been in the room before, set it up to face the chair and pressed record. The red recording light had been covered with tape so you couldn’t tell if you were being filmed or not.
He went over to tie Gibson up, but in one quick movement Gibson lunged head-first into Rebwar, his head slamming into his stomach. The force sent Rebwar flying back towards the tiled wall, his lungs emptied of air. It was as if he was drowning, his body screaming for air. Then he saw his own pistol clatter across the floor, the safety was off and the hammer cocked. Gibson was a good actor and trained to get himself out of such situations.
He could see Gibson contorting himself, sliding his arms frantically underneath his feet. Rebwar took another deep breath, he had to get to the spinning pistol but his body wouldn’t obey. Gibson managed to throw himself on the floor and rolled over towards the pistol. His hands were still tied but were now in front of him. Rebwar watched him fumble with the pistol and it went off. A yellow flash lit the room, followed by a deafening bang that resonated throughout the building like a ghostly tremor.
Rebwar’s breathing recovered, but his ears were ringing. He could smell cordite and saw a barrel pointing at him. Gibson’s mouth was moving, his perfect smile framed by his short dark beard. After a few moments, Rebwar’s hearing recovered enough to make out what Gibson was saying.
‘How the tables can turn, huh?’
Rebwar, still breathing deeply and nursing the pain in his chest, watched the smoking gun in Gibson’s dirty hands. He had let his guard down.
‘Sit on that chair. Wait… I need you to cut the cable ties first and no wise moves.’ With his upper arm, Gibson wiped beads of sweat from his brow.
Rebwar made his way painfully over to get the Stanley knife. He stood there squeezing the knife, anger running through him. He wanted to cut Gibson, slash him, see blood spill out of him. Gibson must have sensed Rebwar’s intent, walked up to him and shoved the gun into his chest. It was still warm as it poked into his ribs. Rebwar’s hand tensed on the knife.
‘Cut me loose.’ Gibson said as he clicked the hammer back on the pistol.
Rebwar’s hands trembled; adrenaline flowing. He concentrated, trying not to cut into Gibson’s flesh. It was tricky, but the plastic finally snapped open and Gibson grabbed the knife from him. He pushed Rebwar back to the metal chair and Rebwar let his battered body fall onto it, he had no energy to fight. Gibson searched Rebwar’s jacket pockets, found more cable ties and used them to secure each limb to the chair. The thin plastic ties cut into his skin.
Gibson noticed that Rebwar had a handcuff on his wrist.
‘Ah, been running from the law have we?’ He secured this to the chair too.
He started strutting around the room, puffing himself up like a prizefighter. He stopped in front of the camera that now pointed at Rebwar, whose fists were clenching with anger. Gibson’s voice had taken on a high-pitched affected tone.
‘Planning to make a snuff video? Or maybe you’ve got a YouTube channel?’ He looked at the camera, ‘Ah, I know how these work, the red light’s not flashing, bad luck Rebwar. Your family could have watched you die. How would you like that?’ He walked back towards the chair. ‘You know these channels make money. We could have been famous. Imagine!’
Rebwar tried to control his breathing. He had to think and think hard for a way out. Gibson was erratic and dangerous and wasn’t going to let him live.
‘So, what was this place? Some kind of weird hospital where they experimented on people?’ Gibson ran his fingers over the rusting medical instruments that were still sitting on the dusty trolley in the corner from Rebwar’s previous visit. He picked a few out. ‘A little antique for me but I’m sure I can still get a few organs out, might be a bit messy, but hey! Rebwar, what do you think?’
‘You’re a butcher. Have you no… care about people and their suffering?’
‘You know we are similar, Rebwar… I’ve seen your world. Where was it? Iraq?’
‘Iran. Kheili khara…1 and you?’
‘Me? You don’t know? Middle class boy from Surrey. So, you’re not police? You told me you were working for them. Yeah, I remember.’ Gibson stood there smiling at him like he’d won some kind of prize.
Rebwar shook his head.
‘But you served? I know you did. Did you see any action?’
Rebwar looked at him. He was interested, which was good. He had his attention. ‘Fought against Saddam.’
‘I didn’t fire a single round. But, to be fair, you don’t as a medic. Unless something goes very, very wrong.’ Gibson laughed.
‘So why?’ Rebwar hoped the camera was still running, he needed to get a confession, even if it wasn’t quite how he’d imagined it.
‘Why? Why…?’ He walked around sizing him up. ‘Money. It’s always money.’ He scratched his beard, which had lost its sharp trim. Rebwar thought back to the conversation with Isabella about the child they had lost because a heart donor couldn’t be found. This could be a way to get to him.
‘Is it because your daughter died?’ Gibson’s head shot up and he spun on his heel to face Rebwar. ‘What the fuck did you just say?’ Rebwar saw he was rattled.
‘I know what happened to your daughter, Laura. Your wife told me when I went to see her. You couldn’t find a donor. Is that why you do this?’
Gibson was red faced with rage and moved forward with such force Rebwar thought he would send him and the chair flying.
‘Don’t you fucking dare even say her name you little shit.’ Spittle sprayed Rebwar’s face as Gibson got closer to him. He seemed to go into a trance for a few seconds, as if he was far away. Then his face changed expression and he was back. Rebwar was sure by now that this man was teetering on the edge of reason, or he was actually a psychopath. Considering the things he had done, this could well be the case. He started talking again.
‘Life and death. That’s what it’s all about. You get addicted to it. The one who started it, he had a proper God complex, like most Army Majors. Poor old Carnell went and got himself blown up by an IED, poor fucker, so I took over his ‘practice’ as we called it. Oh, the power! Come on, didn’t you get a buzz from shooting those Iraqis?’
‘We were defending our homeland. Very different to killing innocent people for their organs.’
Gibson turned and went back to the trolley in the corner. ‘Oh yes, talking of which… what are we going to do with you?’ He picked up each of the rusting medical instruments in turn, looking Rebwar up and down. ‘Don’t think I can harvest anything from you. I’d lose my reputation by selling damaged goods.’
Rebwar tried to distract him. ‘How about a game of poker? You’re a gambling man, I’m sure you are.’
Gibson laughed. ‘Really? With that old man’s credit? Rebwar changed tack again.
‘Can I get a cigarette?’
He ignored the question and walked over to the camera. ‘What were you hoping to use this for? Really.’
‘For your confession. Madar jendeh.’2 Rebwar held his breath hoping he didn’t look at it too closely.
‘But to whom?’
Gibson looked into the lens.
‘Me and other interested parties.’
‘Who?’ Gibson’s sharp eyebrows rose.
‘The guys I work for. This is their place.’
Gibson smiled and rubbed his hands over his beard. He cupped a hand to his ear. ‘Nope. Can’t hear them. Try a little harder, Rebwar.’ He looked down and spotted some dried red spots on the tiles. He scraped one off with his nail and tasted it. ‘Blood!’
Rebwar was repulsed and stared at him. The man was crazy. He reminded him of The Joker from Batman.
‘You know what I think?’ Gibson pointed at him. ‘Don’t answer that. This is a torture chamber!’ He laughed loudly at his own joke. ‘So exactly who are these ‘interested partners’ you work for?’ Gibson grabbed Rebwar’s chin and squeezed. ‘You’re testing my patience and you are not in a position to. Understand?’ He went back to the trolley and come striding back with an old rusty scalpel.
Rebwar flinched and moved his face as far as he could from the blade ‘Gibson, listen, it’s over. You killed your wife.’
‘Yeah, collateral damage…’ Rebwar detected a flicker of remorse. Gibson didn’t need to know Isabella might have survived; he didn’t deserve that. ‘You should have called the police. Although they are a bunch of amateurs. Six years I’ve been doing this and not a peep. So, how did you find me?’ He brought the rusting scalpel closer to Rebwar’s face. ‘Luck eh?’
‘My organisation knows all about you.’ Rebwar was bluffing, unless Geraldine had got his message, no-one knew they were there.
Gibson cupped his ear again. All Rebwar could hear was the distant rustle of trees being blown around in the wind outside. ‘Ha! Nothing. No-one!’ He laughed maniacally and came even closer to Rebwar’s face, twisted lips inches from his. ‘You know what hung, drawn and quartered is?’