Due Diligence

by D J Harrison

  The fumbling with the device complete, I hear myself leave the flat. Now Miriam’s voice begins to whine in complaint.

  ‘That was horrible, seeing her like that. Was it really necessary, I feel humiliated.’

  ‘You had to be here, darling,’ his voice plummy and calm, ‘she wouldn’t have come otherwise.’

  ‘Well, it was horrible, seeing her. I can’t believe you made me do it. She must think I’m such a fool. I’ll bet she’s laughing at me right now, telling her friends about me.’

  ‘Nonsense, my dear, she’s a frightened little rabbit, you’ll not be hearing from her again, you have my word.’

  ‘What she said about Martin, is it true, was he killed?’

  ‘Now, now, we’ve been through all that. Don’t distress yourself just on account of that spiteful bitch. He died, it was his heart, nothing sinister about it, only sad, very sad. He was a special man, your Martin.’

  ‘But he was having an affair, and with that woman, you told me. Why did you make me come here, why did I have to listen to all that?’

  ‘It’s important for the family. Look, I’ll make sure she never bothers you again, I promise.’

  Bright headlights, two pairs, swing off the road and head up the drive towards me. There is something disturbing about the aggressive way in which they are driving, not the stately progression I associate with returning residents in their Nissan Micras. These are big vehicles, vans.

  As they come to an abrupt halt outside my window I duck out of sight under my desk. As a precaution I switch off the computer by pushing the button near my face. Loud voices, men shouting, make me curl up and cower in my precarious hide-out. Any worries I have about potential embarrassment are replaced by genuine concern and fear.

  More voices. I hear my name being called. Boots clatter into the reception area beyond my open door. I hear Gerard, still pottering about aimlessly even at this time. He must be on his way to download the day’s catalogue of minor defects onto my already over-loaded brain.

  ‘She’s not here, I’m looking for her myself.’

  ‘Where then could she have gone?’ The question is harsh and unpleasant, phrased awkwardly as if unused to speaking English.

  ‘She’ll be running,’ Gerard offers proudly. ‘She always goes running about now. Every day. Rain or shine.’

  Footsteps recede, clumping outside, allowing me to breathe deeply.

  ‘Oh!’ I hear Gerard shout. ‘She won’t be long. That’s her caravan over there, third one along. You can wait for her in the office. She’ll be back very soon.’ His overly helpful suggestions are making me cringe with exasperation. The footsteps return, as instructed. Gerard has his way. I am trapped here, cowering under my desk.

  ‘I’ll make sure she never bothers you again’ runs around my mind. Not only the words, but the way he says them. There is certainty in the promise he makes. I’m sure he is the one responsible for the intruders at my flat and now these men are looking for me at my new home.

  The footfalls are amplified by the suspended floor and rickety construction. The whole building vibrates to the comings and goings. I have visions of very large men with huge boots clumping around only a few feet away. Soon, surely, someone will take the trouble to come in here and look under my desk.

  The rocking and shaking is stilled. I get the feeling that the boots have left the building. My knees are hurting. One of my feet has pins and needles, I need to move, this seems as good an opportunity as any.

  Slowly I uncoil myself and peer over the parapet. A man is sitting on the reception table with his back to me. The tightness of his grey sweatshirt accentuates the saddle of thick muscle around his shoulders and neck. He is unaware of me, but I have to get past him to make my escape.

  Looking around the office I can’t see any useful implement with which to incapacitate him. Under the circumstances, a gun in my desk drawer would have been very useful but Gary’s ban on firearms precludes that possibility. Stapler, computer keyboard, desk-tidy containing paper clips and drawing pins, small plant in a black pot of soil. Nothing useful like a baseball bat or pickaxe handle.

  My desperate search is halted when I look up to see the man in the grey sweatshirt is looking straight at me. His face is square and handsome, his eyes gaze unconcernedly at me. No alarm, no shouting, no display of surprise, only a slow movement of his legs as he swings off the table and stands in the doorway. His arms and torso match the exaggerated musculature of his back and neck. If he’s an obsessive body-builder, taking supplements and pills, concerned only with the look of his oiled body, I have a chance. Although he may look immensely strong and almost certainly is, I have sparred with his type before and found them slow to react, poor fighters, easily thrown off balance.

  Speed and skill can beat pure strength. I hold this thought and pick up the stapler in one hand and my phone in the other. Heart thudding with tension, I try to match his apparent disregard and force a smile.

  ‘Oh, hi!’ I beam at him. Holding out my phone in my left hand I take a step towards him. He remains static, feet parallel, showing no sign of a defensive posture. As his eyes move to look at the phone I take another step, this time fast. As my hip swings into the stride I bring my right arm through and punch him in his temple with every ounce of strength and technique I can muster. The weight of the stapler adds to the force and momentum. My fist connects with immense power.

  Instead of collapsing in a heap, instead of being knocked sideways and insensible, instead of flinching, this man stands upright as if nothing’s happened. The pain in my fist is testament to the powerful blow I’ve just inflicted, but it has no apparent effect on him at all.

  Before I can withdraw my arm and strike again, both of my wrists are grabbed by his strong hands. I’m standing helpless, arms aloft, locked in his unshakable grip. I try to deliver kicks but he manoeuvres away without any sign of effort. He calls out a few words, not in English, maybe Russian, another man appears, older and not at all handsome, but also dressed in a grey sweatshirt and jogging pants.

  ‘Ah.’ The older man grins to show crooked yellow teeth. ‘Jenny Parker.’ He fishes out a piece of paper from his back pocket, looks at it, then at me again. ‘Yes, Jenny Parker, put her in the car.’

  I’m shouting as loud as I can, things like ‘Help, call the police, get off me, leave me alone,’ until he steps forward and punches me hard in my stomach. Now I can’t breathe, never mind shout. The pain overwhelms me, I sink to my knees, supported only by my grasped arms. My assailant loosens his grip on my wrists, allows me to fall, then picks me up by my waist and carries me under one arm. He deposits me in the luggage area of a white van, behind the rear seats. I’m still clutching my belly and trying to gasp in air when the vehicle drives away.

  59

  The relief at being taken out of the sweaty confinement of the van is short-lived. I’m grabbed again, carried inside a portacabin and lashed securely onto a table. My arms and legs are completely immobilised and I can barely move my head. All the resistance has been knocked out of me on the journey. I only had to move a little bit before a heavy fist swung into action. Every part of me aches.

  The little I can see around the room fills me with dread. There are three video cameras on tripods in the corners, all pointing at me. The older, ugly man brandishes a bright knife in my face and grins his halitosis into my nostrils. The big man who caught me is by the door and I sense another presence out of my direct line of sight.

  ‘Please!’ I beg him. ‘Don’t hurt me, I’ll pay you, I’ll give you money, all the money I have, fifty thousand pounds, I’ll give it all to you, please don’t hurt me.’ I am desperate, I have no other hope.

  He makes no verbal answer, just pushes the cold blade under my shirt.

  ‘Please…’ My own voice sounds unfamiliar to me, distant.

  The knife works its way upwards, slicing through the thin cloth, splitting my clothes in two. I am screaming for my life now, with the last vestiges of my strength.


  A heavy blow to my abdomen stills my voice. The older man grimaces in disapproval, his face still looming above mine. ‘Leave her, let her yell, he’ll like it. He said to make her suffer.’

  The tell-tale red lights show the cameras are filming, I am part of some perverted drama. The knife finishes with my top. He spreads the sundered clothing aside, baring my breasts. His face shows no sign of interest, no sign of emotion, no mercy or compassion, only cruel indifference in a cloud of bad breath.

  He moves down to my feet, I feel him slicing each trouser leg in turn then my pants are torn away. I am naked, exposed, splayed out in front of these disgusting men. I wonder if this is another version of what happened to me when I was drugged. This time I’m fully conscious of what’s happening to me but somehow I’m still able to detach myself. It’s as if I’ve already abandoned my flesh to them and my spirit is preparing to vacate my body.

  His smell is back, the point of his knife pressed against my throat.

  ‘Anyone want to use her before I cut her up?’ His words have no effect on me. I understand them but they mean nothing. A strange calmness has settled into me, my anxiety has been released. I know I’m lost and accept its inevitability.

  ‘Me.’ A new voice, younger, with an unmistakeable northern accent. The older man steps aside, I strain my head to see someone unzipping himself next to my head, taking out his penis, stroking it. A sudden jolt of recognition hits me. I know this man, it’s Justin, Carrie’s fiancé, the one who abuses her then gives her expensive jewellery.

  ‘Justin?’ I ask.

  ‘Mrs Parker,’ he replies. ‘I’m going to do you a big favour. Give you one last bit of pleasure before he cuts you up.’

  He leans over me so that I can see his face clearly, as he does so his hardening cock brushes my cheek and I grab it between my teeth. He shouts and tries to pull it away but I bite harder, fasten my teeth deep into his meat.

  He starts to hit me and I twist my grip, trying to bite through his gristle, feeling his warm blood trickling down my chin. Before I can sever the end of his cock completely a savage blow to my stomach loosens my grip.

  Justin pulls away, screaming with anguish. My mind can’t help wondering how he’ll explain to Carrie why he has my tooth marks in his penis.

  I hear a familiar engine noise outside, the ear-splitting sound of Big Mick’s motorised tricycle. Almost as soon as it stops, Mick appears in the doorway. I forget my pain and strain to look at him.

  The strong man in the grey sweatshirt, the man who subdued me so easily, moves to block Mick’s entrance. My heart sinks with the recent memory of his immense power and I fear for poor Mick. He attacks, but Mick absorbs his blows and grabs him around his neck. Remarkably, Mick manages to put this man in a headlock and continue his progress towards me.

  The man with the knife flashes it towards Mick’s chest, but Mick brings the head under his arm round to parry it.

  Another vehicle arrives, men run into the room. Mick releases the bloody mess under his arm. Gary appears, pushes past him and fells the older man with a series of blows from a pickaxe handle. Strong arms pick me off the table and carry me gently to Gary’s Range Rover. I can hear my own sobbing, but I can’t do anything to stop it.

  60

  A man’s face looks down on me as I open my eyes. It’s a young face, cheerful and mottled, with untidy hair and an unthreatening smile. One corner of the poster has flapped free from the piece of Blu-Tack that should hold it tight to the ceiling. I remember I am in Sally’s room, in Sally’s bed, being stared at by one of Sally’s Pop Idols. The place has a nice smell, fresh and clean, with a hint of wholesome cooking wafting through the door. I feel well enough to be hungry. There are a few twinges of pain as I sit up, the worst of these is in my stomach. I’m not sure if this is a result of the blows I received or a continuation of my fearfulness.

  I swing my legs out of bed and find I’m wearing pink pyjamas with tiny white rabbits running around all over them. These must also be Sally’s, she is a big girl for twelve and her things fit me quite well.

  Downstairs, Gary and his family are already sitting around the kitchen table. Doreen, his wife, stands resplendent in her pinny and enormous quantity of red hair, doling out ladles full of steaming stew to the children. Sally, my room donor, is a be-freckled child with her mother’s hair colour and her father’s stocky build. She is the middle of three sisters; the eldest girl, Siobhan, is fourteen, small, delicate and fair-haired. Sophie the ten-year-old is loud and boisterous, she pushes her dish to the front of the queue and complains vociferously as Sean, Gary’s eight-year-old son, gets served first. It’s either because he’s the youngest or, as I fear, because he’s a male, that he gets priority. I can’t help thinking I’m sitting among a typical Irish family, three girls then a boy. It’s as if poor Doreen was expected to produce offspring until a male popped out. This may be an unkind thought I am having and completely untrue, it’s only that it looks that way to me. Nobody remarks on the fact that I’m sitting down to the evening meal in pink pyjamas, nor that I have occupied Sally’s bed for two days solid now. The stew is delicious but I’m so hungry I could eat a tin of dog food.

  My portion disappears almost instantly and I usurp the younger O’Donnells by being served second helpings out of turn. The chatter around the table is warm and good-humoured, the gentle banter among the children is full of fun.

  ‘Aw Sean, don’t you be slurping your food like that.’ From Siobhan.

  ‘Nah Sean, eat posh like this.’ Sally places a tiny morsel of lamb on the back of her fork and takes a full minute, raising it slowly and elegantly to her mouth. There is a flash of steel as Sophie takes the opportunity to use her fork to purloin a choice morsel whilst Sally is otherwise engaged. Doreen and Gary sit proudly at either end of the table, smiling broad beams at each other. Carrie comes into the kitchen, takes the spare seat in silence and avoids acknowledging my presence with eye contact. She stares sullenly into her plate. All the pretend bickering stops and the atmosphere is suddenly flat.

  ‘We need to talk.’ I am addressing Gary but I could equally mean Carrie. Gary mops up the last of his gravy with a sizeable wedge of bread, then stands up.

  ‘I’ll go see to the horses.’ He nods at me. ‘If you like you can come and help.’

  There are a row of green and grey coats hanging on hooks by the back door. Gary hands one to me and we walk outside to his car. The stables are barely fifty yards from his house, but he drives there and we sit quietly for a while.

  Eventually I take a deep breath and ask, ‘How come you managed to find me?’ My voice falters towards the end of the question as I remember the teeth, the smell and the knife.

  ‘We were lucky, so we were. They used the same van when they raided your flat. Ian put one of his trackers on it, just so we could see where it went. When Gerard called to say what had happened it was the only thing we could do, find their van.’

  I breathe out heavily and gasp air back in as if my body doesn’t believe I’ll get another chance.

  ‘Did you see it was Justin, Carrie’s Justin, did you see what I did to him?’

  ‘That little shit.’ Gary screws his face in distaste. ‘That’s how they found you, it’s how they knew where you were. Carrie told him, she was telling him everything. God help us you were brave. We took the cameras, I watched it through. Those are nasty bastards, especially that Yuri, the one with the knife.’

  I feel surprised that Gary knows the names of these thugs.

  ‘I suppose they’re Popov’s men, that’s how you know them?’

  Gary looks thoughtful.

  ‘No. Popov told me who they are but they don’t have anything to do with him.’

  ‘I’m surprised, I thought Popov was the one that got me after the funeral. He says that wasn’t him or any of his associates?’

  ‘Popov had nothing to do with you being attacked.’

  My heart sinks. Gary had been right to take Popov’s advice and
cast me out. A flash of fear for Gary’s family, this place, his whole business makes me recoil with guilt. I am the cause of all this trouble, I’m bringing danger to his doorstep.

  ‘They’ll come here, they’ll kill us all. I have to get away or you’ll all be in danger.’

  Gary says nothing. His tacit reply is confirmation of everything I say. He clicks open the car door, a smell of horse mixes with the scent of leather.

  As he shovels straw, liberally laced with dung, into a wheelbarrow, I hover around him, hoping for some words of comfort. I need reassurance, I want him to say they are all dead, all gone away, never coming back. He shovels silently.

  Cold feet bring me back from my desperate thoughts into the present. I am standing in a soggy stable wearing pink pyjamas under a waxed jacket. On my feet is a pair of fluffy pink slippers which are slowly absorbing the brown colouration of the liquid they are standing in.

  A long muzzle sniffs inquisitively at my face. I clasp the horse’s neck in both hands and lean my head against it. As I breathe, the aroma fills my lungs and the gentle kindness of the animal supports my spirit. I want to stay here, be with the horses, lie in the straw, share their oats, hide.

  On the ridiculously short drive back to the house, I worry about the muddy imprints my soiled slippers make on the pristine grey carpet. Gary appears unconcerned about the state of his car’s interior décor.

  ‘Carrie looks upset, I think she’s angry with me for biting her boyfriend’s dick.’ The words force a wry smile from Gary, even I can appreciate the dark humour in my words now they are said.

  ‘No, not you, she’s angry with me,’ Gary replies. ‘She knows nothing about what happened, only that Justin is no good; a thief and a killer of defenceless women, I told her. I said he’d betrayed you, led them to harm you. She knows he found out where you were from her, she’s upset with me and with herself. She’s scared of what you must think of her.’