Crunch Time

by Nick Oldham

  ‘Well, well, well,’ Ingram said, ‘or should I say, “’Ello, ’ello, ’ello, what’s going on ’ere then?” What a pretty picture. Hm, I see you managed to get your hands free, the least I would have expected from a cop. Doesn’t matter, though.’ He had a gun in his hand, waving it loosely at the two captives.

  Shielding his eyes with his left hand, Henry said, ‘I’m not a cop and whoever told you I am is lying.’

  ‘Makes no odds to me,’ Ingram said. ‘No smoke without fire, is what I say, and if I suspect something I always act on it.’

  ‘What’re you going to do?’

  ‘Kill you.’

  ‘And if I am a cop, then you’ll be up the shitter, won’t you?’

  ‘And if you’re not, you’ll be dead anyway … if you are, so be it. I don’t take chances.’

  ‘You need to let us both go.’

  Ingram hee-hawed and looked at Mitch, then back at Henry. ‘Nah, she’s an asset, you’re a liability … I’m just going to balance the books, is all.’

  Mitch said, ‘Shall we?’ with glee.

  Ingram nodded.

  ‘OK, Frank, or whatever your name is’ – he too held a handgun pointed directly at Henry – ‘up you get. You too, missy.’

  ‘What’s going to happen?’

  ‘Er, you’re gonna get dead and she’s gonna get fucked.’

  Gina emitted a moan of terror. Henry held her tightly. She gripped him in return.

  Mitch moved to the head of the inspection pit steps.

  ‘You first, Frank. Up here.’

  A jerk of pain shot up through Henry’s rib cage as he shifted even slightly. He wanted to say something reassuring to Gina, but couldn’t find the words. He was feeling helpless and impotent. He raised himself slowly, wincing as he came upright, and wondered how he was going to deal with this, maybe his last few minutes on planet Earth.

  He guessed there would be little opportunity for anything. Having seen Mitch in action, he doubted whether either he or Ingram would wish to spend much time discussing their holiday plans with him. These two men were ruthless operators, murderous individuals who killed without remorse, not feeling any reason to explain anything to their victims, as Henry had witnessed in Stratford, a town, he guessed, which would reel in the aftermath of the double murder.

  But Henry knew that any time he could wangle out of them would give him a chance – and somehow he had to make time. If they were going to march him out of here and double tap his head without any formalities, then that was that, game over. He had to stall them, buy some time, look for a chance.

  He glanced at Gina. She stared up at him, open-mouthed, trusting. He gave her a discreet wink.

  ‘What’re you going to do with her?’ He raised his face at the two men.

  ‘Indulge ourselves,’ Ingram said, so matter-of-fact it scared the daylights out of Henry. A shadow crossed the man’s face, the look of lust and perversion. ‘After we’ve killed you, that is.’

  Henry’s insides did a quick roll-over. He gasped. It was an emission of fear, but he hoped Ingram would interpret it as something else, along the lines his depraved mind was working.

  ‘Can I watch?’ Henry blurted.

  ‘You-fucking-what?’ Mitch laughed with disbelief.

  ‘Whatever happens, whatever you believe about me, I’m going to die, yeah? So just let me watch the girl being fucked, then do me and at least I’ll die happy.’

  ‘You want me to let you watch as I fist fuck her?’

  ‘Last request and all that. I won’t cause problems, just sit, watch, maybe pull my plug.’

  Ingram and Mitch exchanged glances again. Henry had touched a perverted nerve.

  Ingram smiled in a twisted, contorted way.

  ‘Up her arse, everything,’ Henry encouraged him. He did not allow himself to look at Gina, but he knew she was right down in the corner of the pit, sobbing, knees drawn up tight, her head hidden, her hands covering her ears, mortified by this betrayal.

  ‘I quite like that idea,’ Ingram said.

  Henry knew he would, Sex. Power. Life. Death. Ingram thought he controlled everything.

  ‘You’re more of a perv than I am, Henry.’

  ‘My name is Frank.’

  ‘Whatever.’

  But then Henry had a sudden, dreadful premonition.

  This idea might buy him some time, but if it could do nothing to change his destiny, he would go to his death having witnessed the rape, torture and molestation of this wonderful, brave girl – and at his instigation.

  He would die with that on his mind.

  Sixteen

  Donaldson powered his Jeep out of Poulton-le-Fylde and accelerated towards Blackpool, his mobile phone cradled to his ear.

  ‘The local cops have been told and they’re on their way. I’m ten minutes away.

  ‘Thank God,’ Kate breathed.

  ‘What’s happening now?’ Donaldson swerved and overtook a slower moving car and floored the accelerator and did not even flinch when a speed camera flashed behind him, though he did glance at his speedo, which was registering seventy-two. He had enough faith in British justice to believe that, under the circumstances, this demeanour would be scrubbed.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Have you seen anyone? Have you looked outside?’

  ‘Not for a few minutes. It’s all gone quiet.’

  ‘Maybe he’s gone … where are you in the house?’

  ‘Our bedroom. I’m frightened to move.’

  ‘OK, stay put. Cops’ll be there soon, then me.’

  ‘Thank God,’ Kate reiterated. ‘Hang on, there’s something … just a second …’

  ‘Kate, what’s going on?’ Donaldson slowed for some red lights, but they changed to green as he hit them.

  ‘I heard something. I’m going on to the landing.’

  ‘What did you hear?’

  ‘Something at the front door, sounded like a letter coming through.’

  Donaldson could hear a shuffling noise, Kate walking perhaps, a door opening, then there was a loud crashing noise, maybe a window breaking, and then Kate screaming dreadfully into the phone.

  ‘Kate! Kate!’ Donaldson yelled as he almost rear-ended another car, but managed to brake and overtake.

  The line went dead.

  Mitch forced Henry down on to his knees as he came out of the pit, and whilst Ingram shoved the muzzle of his gun into the soft flesh at Henry’s windpipe, Mitch rebound his wrists in front of him, palm to palm, as though he was praying.

  Ingram bent close to Henry’s face.

  ‘You are a cop, aren’t you?’ He screwed the gun painfully into his flesh.

  ‘No.’

  ‘I don’t believe you.’

  He could smell Ingram’s breath – garlic – and body odour – sweat.

  ‘I’m Frank Jagger, a fucking good-for-nothing Jack the Lad, that’s all I am.’ Henry was looking at Ingram through the corner of his eye, his chin raised, his whole body twitching nervously.

  ‘Actually, I don’t give a shit.’

  ‘I—’ Henry began, but stopped before he’d started as he felt his mobile phone vibrating against the inside of his thigh. It was working. There was a signal now. Had his messages got through?

  ‘I, what, Frank, Henry?’ Ingram asked. He shoved the barrel in hard against his Adam’s apple.

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Done.’ Mitch stepped away from Henry’s tethered hands. Henry tensed his wrists, testing the strength of the fastening.

  Ingram stood up.

  The feel, the impression of the gun was still in Henry’s neck even though Ingram had removed it.

  Mitch pulled Henry roughly to his feet, obviously not caring too deeply about any injury he might have incurred. The phone between his legs dropped a quarter of an inch and Henry quickly drew his legs together. Too quickly. It was a movement noted by Ingram.

  ‘Problem?’

  ‘Need a piss,’ Henry lied.

  ‘
Do it in your pants, then.’ Ingram looked down at the girl. ‘Come on.’ She looked at him in fear, biting her lips, shaking her head. ‘You don’t come, I drag you,’ he warned her.

  ‘Fuck off,’ she said.

  Henry hid an inner smile. She really had some bottle, this kid.

  Ingram tutted, went down the steps and dragged her to her feet with ease, and though she kicked and punched him, he held her with his left hand, his right still holding his gun, and seemed to enjoy her writhings.

  Sex, power, Henry thought.

  After a few moments, though, Ingram had had enough.

  He got rough.

  He smacked the butt of his gun across her face, then punched her down with a left jab, then began to pound on her.

  Henry jerked towards him, his protective instinct cutting in.

  Mitch grabbed his upper arm in a vice-like grip and gave him a warning look.

  Then Henry settled back. He knew he had to keep a grip on himself. He was still Frank Jagger and if necessary it was the identity he would take to the grave with him. The same Frank Jagger who had just made the most perverted last request ever – so the girl getting a pre-rape battering wasn’t something that should have bothered him in the slightest.

  Ingram screwed his left hand into Gina’s hair and balled his fingers into a fist, then heaved her up and shoved his face into hers.

  ‘I like that,’ he breathed.

  Despite himself, Henry could not control his heartbeat, nor the flaring of his nostrils, nor the surge deep within him.

  Gina, God bless her, spat a mouthful of phlegm and blood into Ingram’s face, which drove him into a paroxysm of undiluted rage. He threw his gun down and started to beat Gina about the head, pummelling her repeatedly with his fists, driving his knees into her lithe body.

  Henry caught Mitch watching this display of manliness with the expression of a salivating dog. No doubt he would get the leftovers.

  Just for a moment, the big man’s guard was down.

  Henry now had to make his judgement. Was this the moment he had been seeking? Or was it doomed to failure?

  Both villains were now diverted by the suffering of a little girl, their minds focused on that and nothing else.

  Henry’s moment had arrived.

  Donaldson pressed the redial button, could hear Kate’s phone ringing out.

  ‘Come on, girl,’ he intoned, negotiating a roundabout one-handed, the Jeep lurching, tyres squealing. He was in Blackpool now, on the back roads, almost at the junction of the A587, having just passed the hospital in which Troy Costain had undergone emergency surgery, and the zoo. Once on the 587, he was about three minutes from Henry’s house – if he ran all the speed cameras along that road – which he fully intended to do.

  The phone was answered.

  Kate was hysterical.

  ‘He’s pouring petrol in through the letter box!’

  Donaldson almost swerved off the road.

  Other than surprise, Henry had no weapons at his disposal. His hands were tied in front of him; Mitch, standing two feet away from him at the edge of the pit, was armed, as was Ingram down in the pit itself, beating up the girl – although he had thrown his gun down when he’d decided to attack her with two fists.

  Between his legs, Henry’s phone vibrated.

  At least they would be able to triangulate his position, he thought disconnectedly at the back of his mind. Find my body, maybe.

  Henry interlinked his fingers rather like a volley ball player about to make a dig.

  God, he was hurting, too. Every small movement made him wince. The pain was incredible.

  There would be no second chance with Mitch.

  It had to be right.

  It had to be now.

  He tensed his whole being, fought off all thoughts of pain. Mind over matter: it was not going to hurt him.

  Mitch looked at him, a faraway look of pleasure in his eyes.

  In the pit, Ingram pounded Gina mercilessly. Kicked, punched, engrossed like a demon.

  Henry caught Mitch’s expression, reflected it back. Two guys, same wavelength. Two sick guys.

  It needed to be an upward swing, executed perfectly, almost like a golf stroke.

  His body twisted at the hip. His right shoulder rose, his left dipped and his bunched hands drew back and then he pivoted. He swung round and ignoring the ribs and everything else, he cobbled together all his strength and went for the hole in one. The punch he hoped would be enough to floor the big man.

  It came up under Mitch’s chin and connected with the sound of knuckles rapping a door as Henry’s fists smacked up into the jaw. There was even more pain for Henry as he felt one of the bones in his hand crack. He hit him as hard as possible and knew from the impact that shock waves must have been sent up through the big man’s cranium like an earthquake.

  His head snapped back and he staggered away a few steps, but even then, Henry knew he had to keep going, pound in his advantage and make it pay, otherwise Mitch would just shake his head like a grizzly bear, then shoot Henry dead.

  No hesitation, no second thoughts.

  Henry went in hard, following Mitch as he went backwards.

  With his hands still interlocked into one powerful fist, he charged at the man, holding his arms outstretched and locked into place, and like a lance held by a medieval knight, he slammed into Mitch’s chest. On impact, Henry twisted slightly and managed to get his right foot behind Mitch’s right ankle and tipped him over.

  Still stunned by the chin blow, Mitch’s legs gave way and he crumbled backwards on to the concrete floor. The gun was still in his hand and this was Henry’s next target. He jumped on Mitch’s right forearm, then stamped down hard on it, again and again. But the fingers wouldn’t open and Henry knew he was running out of time and advantage, even though the assault had lasted only a matter of seconds so far.

  And all Ingram had to do was raise his head from his own assault, then Henry’s little episode would be over.

  That thought made Henry jump on to Mitch’s head with both feet, then step back and continue to stamp on it with one foot repeatedly.

  The first blow to the underside of the chin had obviously been even better than Henry could have hoped for, because after the fifth stamp of Henry’s foot on his head, he became still, his countenance a bloody mass. Not bloody enough in Henry’s opinion, but he had more to do yet. He dropped to his knees and wrestled the gun from Mitch’s grip, which for some unaccountable reason, he still held on tight to. Henry prized the fat, sausage-like fingers open, expecting Mitch to jump to life and crush him to death in a bear hug, but he didn’t.

  He just gagged for breath and Henry wished he’d stamped on the fat ugly head one more time for luck.

  Now, with the gun clasped between his bound hands, Henry stood up, crouched and turned towards the pit.

  The Jeep skittered into the cul-de-sac. Donaldson righted it, corrected the swerve and accelerated toward the house which was directly ahead – with not one cop car in sight.

  For a moment he was confused by what he saw: orange and yellow lights dancing behind the front door.

  ‘Fuck!’

  Flames.

  The house was on fire, confirmed spectacularly as the window in the panel next to the door blew out with a booming explosion, sending glass shattering in a million directions, and then the fire licked upwards.

  He brought the jeep to a halt at an angle to the road and leapt out.

  That’s when he saw Kate’s face at the bedroom window above the garage door.

  She opened a window, leaned out and screamed, ‘Karl! Karl!’

  The garage was to the left of the front door and for a moment the fire raged directly up to the first-floor window above it, which Karl knew belonged to the en-suite adjoining the main bedroom in which Kate now was, seemingly trapped.

  Donaldson ran up to the house and stood underneath the window Kate leaned from, his strong arms wide as though he expected her to jump down into them
. The flames were immensely hot, even though he was standing two metres away from the front door. Already the fire had taken hold of the downstairs hallway. The flames crackled nastily, like bones being snapped.

  The adrenalin surge through the American acted like a painkiller on his bullet wound.

  ‘You have to climb out, Kate.’

  Unbelievably there was a whoosh to his right. The flames roared with more intensity and suddenly there was a ‘boom’ and the UPVC front door was blasted by a back draft from its hinges, and a ball of fire, like a meteor, soared out of the house, then immediately licked upwards. The flames fanned wider, causing Kate to duck out of their way, screaming in terror as she did.

  Donaldson had to hurl himself sideways to avoid being roasted by the burst.

  He picked himself up from the ground.

  The cul-de-sac was coming to life now, lights going on, people appearing at doors and windows. A couple of pyjama-clad men pulling on dressing gowns and slippers rushed towards the house.

  ‘Kate! Kate!’ Donaldson cupped his hands around his mouth into a loudspeaker.

  In the distance came the sound of sirens.

  The flames from the door died back, but through the space where the door had once been, the new inrush of oxygen had fuelled them even more and Donaldson could see the fire spreading up the stairs, quickly, relentlessly, like an army intent on massacre.

  ‘Kate!’ he screamed once more. She did not reappear. ‘Shit.’

  His mind raced.

  The fire raged.

  He ran back to his Jeep and leapt into the driving seat. The engine was still running. He slammed it into reverse, yanked down the steering wheel and slammed down the accelerator. The vehicle lurched backwards in a sweeping ‘U’. He braked, forced the gearstick into Drive and mounted the pavement, crossing the charred front lawn, twisted the wheel down again and stopped with a lurching judder parallel to the house, in front of the garage, underneath the bedroom window. He leapt out, clambered via the bonnet of the Jeep on to its roof and threw himself across on to the roof of the front porch, which jutted out below the open window.

  Slipping and sliding, always in danger of falling, he climbed across the tiles and dragged himself up through the open window, then dropped into an untidy heap on the floor next to Henry’s bed.