The Eddie Malloy Series

by Joe McNally

  But I was afraid to stretch out and feel for them in case nothing was there, terrified to haul at the bench for fear it wouldn’t move. Then, there would be no escape. No survival. I would be here when he came in with the gun.

  A condemned man now, the events of the past two weeks loomed in my mind, leaving just the rest of my life to flash before me.

  I’d never thought of facing death anywhere but on the racecourse. I couldn’t come to terms with the prospect of dying naked and alone in a bitterly cold outhouse. There had to be some way out.

  Running my hand up the thick timber, I felt the horizontal section where it stopped. I was chained to a bench of some sort. A heavy workbench or an old butcher’s block. If I could lift it and slip the chain clear of the leg... I ran my hands downward again. The leg was bolted to the floor through metal brackets.

  I worked on the loop, pushing it upwards until I could get to my feet. Got there. Couldn’t straighten because of the chain, but at least I was off the floor. I stood hunched, draught cutting my ankles.

  I eased my head down to rest it, and felt along the bench surface. There might be tools around. But all that my fingers found was a big steel vice, too far away, impossible to get the chain into it.

  Pushing toward the back I worked as far up the wall as I could, which was only a couple of feet...nothing. Resting my forearms on the bench, I stretched my right foot out, feeling the floor with my toes. My foot found some sackcloth and I dragged it slowly within finger reach, shook it hard to clear insects and debris, and pulled it across my shoulders. It was damp, but I couldn’t be any colder than I was, so it was worth wearing for a few minutes to see if it improved things. If it didn’t I would be in danger of hypothermia.

  Hypothermia...I’d have to stay alive long enough to catch it.

  Where was I? Where was he? Why hadn’t he finished me off like Gilmour and Donachy? Why the hood? If he planned to kill me, what did he care if I saw his face?

  The little straw-clutcher inside me reached out…was this a lesson, a reminder that I shouldn’t have ignored his note? Maybe he’d just hold me for a couple of days then let me go. Or keep me locked up until he’d finished the killing.

  Shit, what about my rides at Chepstow tomorrow? What day was it? He’d got me on Friday evening; I was assuming this was somewhere in the early hours of Saturday morning, but there was no way of telling. I didn’t know how long I’d been unconscious. I couldn’t tell if it was day or night. It could be Sunday or even Monday. Bloody hell, Barber would be cursing me. Delaney would be in his element.

  This was ridiculous. What was I worried about? I probably wouldn’t be seeing Barber or anyone else again.

  Even Lisa. She was supposed to call me on Saturday.

  I should have told her my plans, rang her every night to tell her my movements, warn her that if I disappeared suddenly, it wouldn’t be through choice. Maybe she couldn’t have done much to help find me, but at least she’d know I hadn’t let her down. And she could have told Barber I hadn’t let him down either.

  Uncontrollable shivering took me, vibrating the headache against the walls of my skull.

  Still hunched, leaning my hooded head on my arms, I tried to jog lightly on the spot in an attempt to get warm. It was tedious and tiring, but it began to work. I kept it up until my calf muscles burned and made me forget my headache for a minute. Eventually I warmed from freezing to plain bloody cold.

  I don’t know how long I kept it up. All sense of time faded. My mind became separate from my body, laughed at it jogging stupidly, going nowhere. Look at that fool, Malloy running pathetically, half naked, wearing that silly hood and sackcloth. I mocked myself cruelly and enjoyed it. All my thoughts seemed pleasant. The pain went away. So did the chill, and I ran myself into an exhausted trance.

  28

  I thought I heard a key click. Couldn’t be sure.

  Awake, slumped on the floor against the bench leg. Or was I? Maybe I was dreaming or still hallucinating…daylight through the hood. Door opening. Closing. Four footsteps. Big fingers on my back, gripping my sides, turning me onto my hands and knees. I submit easily. No fight. Must be a dream. Someone pulls the sackcloth off my shoulders. A hand grasps my hair through the hood, pulling my head up and back…chain tightening. Agony. No dream. Don’t think so…

  …Something pushed through my legs. Long and thin. Between my balls and thigh. Like a pencil high in my crotch. Drawing it back… a foot, two feet, three. Leather. Yes, leather. Moving slowly. A tab catches me, cuts into my penis. A tab... a flap. A leather flap. A riding whip. That’s it, a... aahhh... aahhh, hitting me now. My back. Stinging. No dream.

  No dream.

  The whip bit into my back, my shoulders, thighs, buttocks; I cried out. He hit faster, harder, grunting with the effort, no aim, any piece of skin. My arms and legs gave way and I crumpled onto my stomach. He thrashed, grunting, the leather-covered whalebone singing through the air then smacking tightly into my flesh. I was yelping, almost squealing. I tried to stuff loose cloth from the hood into my mouth so I could bite it. Didn’t make it. Tried to turn. To fight. Couldn’t. Could hear him. Breathing hard. Trickles from my wounds warm on my freezing skin. Blood. And pain. And blood and pain and grunts and whacks and pants and cuts and screams...

  A noise woke me. A voice. It was dark again. Was I awake? The pain was there. What was the voice saying? Same thing. Over and over. What was it?

  “Work out your own salvation with fear and trembling.” “Work out your own salvation with fear and trembling” “Work out...”

  It was on tape. On a loop. Same thing. Deep, forced sound. Which part of the Bible was it from?

  Who cares?

  I settled on my front, joints and muscles stiff and sore, but scared to move. The burning throb in my back was worse. My neck was raw from the chain. My head pounded. My gut ached from hunger.

  But I was alive. Pain, glorious pain, told me he hadn’t killed me.

  Outside, the wind had died down. The draught chilling my right side was steady. Trying to relieve the stiffness I moved a couple of inches to the left and flinched as I felt a cut creak open, the wound edges tearing themselves slowly apart.

  I lay still, panting, waiting for that eruption of pain to subside to bubbling point along with the rest. I tried to think what to do. Something positive. I couldn’t. Nothing came.

  The loop ran: ‘Work out your own salvation with fear and trembling.’

  I’m trying. Honest to God, I’m trying.

  Maybe if I could get to my feet again.

  Huh? Big laugh. As much chance of that as flying.

  Must try.

  I sucked the hood, caught some cloth between my teeth and bit down. Forced my arms up under my face. Heard the dried blood cracking and parting on my shoulders, letting the pain weep through the wounds. Felt the cold, sticking, oozing wound under my right buttock as I drew my leg up. I got as far as my hands and knees, breathing hard through my nose, blubbering through the snot, sweating in the hood, eyes crushed closed, trying not to faint with the agony, battling to control my movements, my thoughts, block out the taped voice taking over my mind…I bit through the cloth and passed out again.

  Darkness when I woke. Pain still there. Tape playing. Same words. Interminably. Filling my head. Where was it, the player? On the floor somewhere. By my feet. Near the door. I stretched a leg slowly toward the sound. Felt the plastic casing with my toe, the handle. I kicked.

  Pain-burst.

  The machine fell over. The voice stopped. The tape was off. In its place some music. Then a terrible screeching interference. Must have knocked it to radio. Local station, maybe. Find out where I am. Searing white noise. Worst I’ve known. Wish I’d left the tape on.

  Blacked out again.

  It was daylight when he returned. I didn’t hear the door open or his footsteps. Only knew he was there when he switched the radio off and there was silence.

  Heard him breathe.

  Would he speak?r />
  No. No words. Just a sound. A quiet sound. Swish. Swish. Swish. The deadly singing of the whip.

  Terror grabbed my gut. A pathetic groan of fear and shame escaped my throat, making me rage at this man who’d reduced me to a petrified child. ‘Who are you?’ I asked, a desperate plea, raising more anger, at myself, my fear and humiliation. ‘Who are you?!’ I screamed it this time.

  No answer.

  Guessing where he’d be, I kicked out grunting through the searing ache and effort in a weak attempt to fight him, to show him he hadn’t beaten me.

  My body turned as I lashed out, the back wounds grinding splinters from the floor. Before I could turn onto my stomach again, he whipped me twice on the chest and groin.

  I stifled a scream, determined to go out with some dignity.

  I cringed, anticipating the next blow, heard him stretch as he raised the whip then jerked silently as it bit like a red-hot saw blade. I waited for the onslaught.

  It didn’t come.

  Just the swishing noise close to my ear. The stretch as he raised it…no hits. The swish again. Then three heavy horrific smacks in quick succession.

  I lay praying, begging God to make him stop but all the time...swish... waiting...for the next one.

  He would hit me once in two minutes then twice in ten seconds. The agony of not knowing when the next stroke would come was worse than the blow itself. Then, like last time, the grunting started. Hitting faster. Grunting to a sexual intensity.

  Now the frenzy. Almost a relief. No more teasing. No more waiting. Exquisite pain. Quickly bringing blessed unconsciousness.

  29

  I woke up in heaven. Or that’s what I thought. No pain. Warm bed. No voices. No whips. Just quiet. A pleasant, groggy peace.

  A nurse came. A beautiful nurse who smiled like my mother.

  ‘You’re awake,’ she said.

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘Somebody did a right number on you!’

  Liverpool accent.

  ‘Afraid so.’ I said.

  ‘What did you do to upset him?’

  ‘Wish I knew.’

  She hadn’t stopped smiling. ‘Try and get some more sleep. If the pain comes back, I’ll give you something for it.’

  ‘Where am I?’

  ‘Hereford General Hospital.’

  ‘How did I get here?

  ‘The ambulance brought you in early this morning. Somebody found you in the car park of the local supermarket...without a car, and without much else either.’

  ‘What day is it?’

  ‘Monday.’

  ‘What date?’

  ‘Eighteenth of March.’

  ‘Oh shit.’

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘I need to make a phone call.’

  ‘I’ll bring you the phone trolley.’

  The nurse lent me some money for the call. When I got through Mac said, ‘Lots of people looking for you, Eddie. Where’ve you been?’

  I told him where I was and he started firing questions. I said, ‘Come and get me out of here and I’ll tell you what happened.’

  He agreed. And I asked him to bring a few things. ‘Mac, have you seen Barber?’

  ‘Saw him at Chepstow on Saturday.’

  ‘Was he mad?’

  ‘About you going missing?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Well he was before racing, but he seemed a bit happier afterwards. Both his runners won.’

  ‘Oh no! Who rode them?’

  ‘Jimmy Crane. Two bloody good performances. Don’t want to depress you, Eddie, but I think you might be out of a job.’

  An hour later, much of the pain was back. I’d refused more morphine, settling for some tablets, so my head would be clear enough to let me ride at Nottingham next day.

  I’d spoken to Barber. When I told him I was ringing from a hospital pay-phone, he said he’d best ring me because we needed to have a ‘long talk’.

  I didn’t tell the full story, only enough to get his sympathy. If I’d told him how badly injured I was, there’s no way he would have asked me to ride so soon. I said I’d give him all the details when we met at Nottingham. He said Delaney was stirring things up again, and that if anything else happened to stop me riding, the job offer would be withdrawn.

  After speaking to him, I told the ward sister I planned to discharge myself as soon as McCarthy arrived with some clothes and money. She wasn’t pleased. Five minutes later, a doctor appeared with some advice.

  His name tag said Doctor Mason. He was square-faced and bearded with light brown hair and angry-looking eyes ‘I really don’t think it would be wise of you to voluntarily remove yourself from hospital care, Mister Malloy.’

  ‘I wouldn’t argue with you, Doctor, I’m sure it’s pretty unwise myself, but needs must when the devil drives and all that.’

  ‘You do realize that the hospital cannot accept responsibility for any deterioration in your condition should you leave here without our approval?’

  ‘I do.’

  Like wedding vows in the marriage to my career.

  ‘May I ask why you’re so anxious to discharge yourself?’

  ‘I need to be back at work tomorrow.’

  ‘No job is that important, Mister Malloy.’

  ‘This one is.’

  ‘What do you do for a living?’

  ‘I ride horses.’

  ‘What sort of horses?’

  ‘Mostly slow ones, unfortunately.’

  He stared at me. ‘You’re not a jockey?’

  ‘I know a few people who’d agree with you, there.’

  ‘Are you telling me that, in your condition, you plan to ride racehorses tomorrow?’

  ‘Over jumps.’

  He sagged and sat on the end of the bed. ‘You’re in the wrong hospital, Mister Malloy, you want certifying.’

  I nodded. ‘I know a few people who’d agree with you there, too.’

  ‘Seriously,’ he said, ‘do you know how many stitches we put in those wounds this morning?’

  ‘The nurse said sixty-two.’

  He nodded in confirmation, gravely waiting for it to strike home. I said, ‘I hope they’re flexible ones.’

  He wasn’t amused. ‘Mister Malloy, if you take a fall, you are looking at permanent severe scarring at best. At worst, you could get blood poisoning so bad it could kill you.’

  ‘I’ll be careful.’

  He looked at me for a while then said, ‘Your flippancy doesn’t impress me, you know. I don’t see your attitude as brave. It’s foolish.’

  ‘I told you, Doc, I agree with you. I’m not trying to impress anybody. Look, it’s a long story. It’s the story of my bloody life and if I had time to tell you it.... look, what I’m saying is, if you knew what was behind it all you’d probably understand why I’ve got to ride tomorrow.’

  He shook his head slowly. ‘I doubt it. Whatever it is it will be downright bloody stupid and irresponsible of you to ride in a horse-race tomorrow.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Doctor, that’s the way it is. It’s my life.’

  ‘Oh it’s your life all right, but when you’re back lying in hospital again tomorrow night as you undoubtedly will be, it’s my colleagues and I who have to patch you up again, which can be just a little bit galling. And it’s the man in the street, the taxpayer, a man who has a humdrum job and an average wage who’ll be paying for you to lie in that bed. A bed, incidentally, which you will probably be depriving someone else of. Someone who might have been suffering on an NHS waiting list for some considerable time. Think on that, Mister Malloy!’ And he set off down the ward stopping after five paces, brows like storm clouds. ‘Have the police been to interview you yet?’

  I shook my head.

  ‘I’ll ring them again and remind them. Maybe they can talk some bloody sense into you!’

  He went away, leaving me feeling very small indeed.

  At 9 p.m., along with McCarthy, came Kavanagh and Miller. Kavanagh, unbuttoning his raincoat, s
miled and said, ‘Long time no see, Eddie.’

  I looked at him. ‘Yeah, I missed you.’

  ‘Me too,’ he said.

  I glared at McCarthy. He said, ‘I thought it best to call Inspector Sanders since you’re the first, uh, survivor.’

  ‘And witness,’ Kavanagh added.

  I said to Kavanagh, ‘Isn’t this out of your patch?’

  ‘Special arrangement with the Hereford lads.’

  Miller, more satanic looking than usual in black coat and matching polo neck, spoke from the bottom of the bed, ‘We told them you were a difficult guy to deal with.’

  I nodded. It hurt. ‘The doctor will confirm that,’ I said.

  ‘So, what’s the story?’ Kavanagh asked.

  ‘Look, can’t it wait? I’m tired and sore and it’s a long way home.’

  Kavanagh said, ‘You’re not going home tonight?’

  ‘I’ve been through all this with the doctor. He’s left me in no doubt that I’m a silly, selfish bastard. He’s right. You’re right. Everybody who disagrees with me is right. I’m not arguing. But I am going home tonight, and tomorrow I’m riding two horses at Nottingham for Hubert Barber. It might kill me but I’m doing it. I hope I’ve made myself absolutely clear because I’m not talking about it anymore.’

  ‘Oh,’ Kavanagh said, ‘we are a bit tired and emotional.’

  I turned to Mac. ‘Did you bring some gear?’

  He nodded. ‘But no way will it fit you.’

  ‘It’s just for the journey.’

  He put a leather hold-all on the end of the bed, took out a pair of brown corduroys, held them up and said, ‘You could probably get into one leg of them.’

  Kavanagh chortled, ‘Failing that, you can always blow them up and hire them out as a bouncy castle.’

  Miller laughed. First time I’d heard him. A girlish giggle. McCarthy was embarrassed. He said, ‘They’re far too big for me now too since I started my diet!’

  ‘For God’s sake,’ I said, ‘we’ll be here all night. Just leave me the bag and draw the screens so I can get changed.’