Numb: A Dark Thriller

by Lee Stevens

  The boy remained still, his face expressionless, as if he had no idea that Tullman was even there. He just stared right through him.

  Then he blinked once more, and that was it.

  Just as Robertson reached him, Tullman passed out.

  PART ONE

  1

  Riley pulled the Mercedes by the side of the road and stared across at the house.

  It was a regular semi-detached, almost identical to every other home in this estate with its grey tiled roof, orange brick facade, council fitted double glazed windows and none of the rooms big enough to swing a cat. Yes, very normal. Sadly, very normal.

  If it wasn’t for Jimmy Howden sitting in the passenger seat, Riley would have sighed. This was one of the better estates in Thirnbridge. Home to decent people. Not usually the sort Riley had to mix with in his line of work. People who lived around here usually borrowed money from legitimate lenders and not from someone like Mike Nash. The poor sod inside must have been desperate.

  “Right, let’s go,” Howden said. He made to unlock his seatbelt but Riley stopped him by slapping a strong hand down on his forearm.

  “No, it’s alright. I’ll do this one myself.”

  “Eh?” Howden frowned, making his big, pudgy face even uglier than it already was. The thin scar that ran down the right side of his forehead seemed to droop into his eye. “What’re you talking about?”

  Riley grabbed the leather carry case from the back seat and quickly re-read the paperwork he pulled out, although ‘paperwork’ was probably the wrong word for the crudely scribbled notes that the regular collector had jotted down after he’d had no luck receiving this month’s payment.

  “This bloke’s called Terry Simpson. He’s in his sixties.” Riley felt like letting out that sigh again. “He still owes three grand.”

  “Why do you think we’re here, genius?” Howden said, grinning.

  Riley chose his next words carefully. This looked like someone he could help. Someone who deserved it.

  “This Mr Simpson lives in a decent house in a quiet street. He’s quite old. I don’t think he’s the sort to give us any trouble, and the sight of us two knocking on his door – especially you - might stop his heart.” Riley nodded at Howden, indicating the other man’s large frame and meaty hands.

  “You know that doesn’t mean shit,” Howden said, dismissively. He coughed, chewed what had jumped up from his throat, and then swallowed it right back down. “He owes Nash money, and when you owe Nash money and you can’t pay, you might panic and decide to do something stupid like put up a fight.” He unlocked his seatbelt. “So I’ll come with you.”

  Riley grabbed Howden’s arm again, stopping him from slipping the seatbelt over his shoulder.

  “No.” Riley again thought carefully about what to say. He had to play this casual, like he was doing Howden a favour and not Mr Terry Simpson of 46 Kipling Close. “You might as well leave this one to me. Even if he does decide to get a bit lively, he’s old and can’t be that much of a handful. And you never know, he may even have the money this time.”

  “He didn’t have it yesterday,” Howden argued. “How’s he gonna get that sort of cash in twenty four hours? Remember, Nash doesn’t like anyone taking him for a mug. It doesn’t matter if this bloke’s in his sixties or fucking nineties, if he can’t pay the piper, we have to pay him. That’s why Nash sends us when the regular collectors don’t have any luck.”

  Riley nodded slowly. Yes, that’s exactly why he and Howden were here today. They were more menacing, more terrifying, and therefore more likely to get blood out of a stone. Howden stood six-three and clocked in at over eighteen stone. Riley was a couple of inches shorter and leaner in build but he still towered over a lot of men, and the sight of them both knocking on the door, dressed as they were in leather jackets and jeans, would surely show the debtor inside that it was time to pay up. But not this time though. Not to a bloke in his sixties. Riley wasn’t having it. Maybe a year or two ago he might have thought differently, back when being on Nash’s payroll was something he was happy to be part of, back when the only people he hurt often deserved it.

  But a lot had happened since then.

  “Still, you hang back and have a quick smoke,” he said, hoping Howden could be swayed by his forty a day habit. He hadn’t lit up in at least seven minutes and might get the shakes. “Like I said, not much will go down here. Save it for the next job.” He looked at the next name on the crumpled paperwork and thought, Sorry, Todd Williams of 37 Dyson Drive, hope you’ve got the cash.

  Howden paused in his seat. Stared over at the house for a few seconds. Then he shrugged, reached into his leather jacket for his smokes, clamped one between his thick, cracked lips and said, “Be quick, then.”

  Riley nodded and climbed from the Merc as Howden lit up.

  “Back in two minutes,” he said, carrying the paperwork with him.

  “And don’t be too soft with the old bastard if he can’t pay,” Howden said, exhaling a plume of smoke that filled the car almost instantly.

  Riley winked as he closed the door.

  Fuck you, Howden, he thought and set off across the road.

  2

  Terry Simpson was sixty-three, recently unemployed, recently widowed and because of reasons only known to himself had borrowed two thousand pounds from Mike Nash a year ago when no reputable lender would touch him.

  Simpson had initially agreed to pay back three thousand in monthly payments of two hundred. But, as is the way with loan-sharking, the payments soon rose to three hundred a month and then to five hundred.

  How’s that possible? Read the small print, sir. Fast Track Loans reserve the right to increase repayments at short notice. Oh, you didn’t realise when you signed the agreement – tough!

  Suddenly Mr Simpson – like so many others – would have found himself in deep shit and in debt for a lot longer than he’d expected.

  What most people don’t realise about loan sharking is that it’s not about charging high interest rates to reap back three or four times more than the original amount loaned in a short period of time, but more about trapping the debtor. It’s about creating a system that makes it almost impossible for them to pay off what they owe and forcing them to make reduced payments that barely cover the interest, therefore turning a two or three year loan deal into a long-term regular income for the lender. Using violence is always a last resort but the threat of potential violence is very common. Nash didn’t want any of the people who owed him money hurt. He wanted payment. But when people refused to open their wallets then a message had to be sent. Not what you see in films, of course. There are rarely any killings (dead people are worth nothing) and rarely any major beatings. The person still has to be fit to work and earn money and certainly not put in hospital where questions might be asked. But they have to be scared into believing that such actions are just around the corner should they fail to co-operate with their initial agreement.

  Terry Simpson hadn’t paid this month, not even an amount that would satisfy as a reduced payment. In fact he’d told the regular collector that he wasn’t making any future payments at all because he’d already paid more than originally agreed and was being robbed. Tell Nash he’s getting no more from me, goodbye. So now he had to be scared into finding the funds in future and maybe lose a few belongings in the process. He would’ve been told to expect a visit and at roughly what time. Evening visits were done first as most people were at home in the evening. If Simpson chose to be out, the next visit would be early morning, before seven o’clock. If there was still no answer then the third visit would be in the middle of the night, and there wouldn’t be a knock at the door. Instead, he’d wake up to find a couple of large, dark figures hovering over his bed. If Simpson had any sense, he’d be inside right now ready to sort this mess out one way or another. Hiding wasn’t an option.

  Mike Nash always found you in the end.

  Riley knocked on the front door and then checked behind him
.

  The street was empty. Even Howden inside the Merc was hidden from this angle because of the shimmer from the dying sun that dappled the windscreen with golden splodges. That was good. Riley wanted Simpson to think he was alone.

  He turned back to the house on seeing movement out the corner of his eye.

  A figure had just darted behind the curtains of an upstairs bedroom. A second later, the lock turned in the front door. Simpson couldn’t be in two places at once, and the regular collector had mentioned that the old guy lived alone after losing his wife. So who was in there with him now? It wouldn’t be the police, Riley reassured himself. They wouldn’t get involved with this at such an early stage. Plus Nash would’ve found out before now if Simpson had talked to them. No, whoever was in there wasn’t with the law. Which meant the situation had suddenly changed.

  The front door opened and a man with thinning grey hair and reading glasses propped on his nose stepped outside - Terry Simpson himself, Riley guessed. He was short and very thin and his blue and white striped shirt and corduroy trousers hung off his skeletal frame. He certainly wasn’t going to be a problem. However, the person or persons upstairs might be. They certainly weren’t in there planning a surprise party.

  “I take it you’re here for the money?” Simpson asked, taking in Riley’s size before looking at the paperwork in his hand. There was no emotion in his voice. His tone was flat, almost robotic, as if he’d rehearsed the phrase over and over and was bored with hearing himself say it.

  “If you’re Mr Simpson,” Riley said, “then yes, I am.”

  Simpson stepped out onto the path and looked in both directions along the street. Saw the street was empty and couldn’t see inside the Merc, Riley hoped. Then he gestured with his head for Riley to follow him inside. Riley did so, but knew something wasn’t right here. Someone else was in the house. Upstairs. And little old Mr Simpson didn’t seem in a panic because he couldn’t pay, nor was he reaching for a wad of notes with relief at getting this over with. It was as if he was strolling back to his armchair to finish his crossword after being disturbed by nothing more frightening than a couple of Jehovah’s Witnesses brandishing a copy of the Watchtower.

  Riley closed the front door behind him, locked it, glanced around the hallway and up the stairs and then followed Simpson through a door to his left. The sitting room was rectangular in shape, and the sofa and two armchairs nearly filled the entire space. There was a television in one corner that was switched off and a cabinet containing a few ornaments in another. The walls were papered with a flower design that was probably in fashion in the eighties. The ceiling and skirting could use a touch of fresh gloss and the carpet looked well worn by a million footsteps. The place really could use brightening up but Riley doubted that decorating was on the top of Mr Simpson’s to-do list right now.

  Simpson didn’t sit down, nor did he offer Riley a seat. Instead he stood with his back to the fireplace and crossed his arms in front of his chest.

  Riley stopped in front of him, his body slightly angled to the left. A perfect position.

  Behind him, on either side of the room, were two doors; one that they’d just come through and another that led to what was probably the kitchen. Two means of access. He could see the one that led to the kitchen on the periphery of his vision. The one behind him was reflected perfectly in the window at the back of the room. He was ready.

  “Have you got the money?” he asked, cutting to the chase. He tried not to show it on his face when he heard a creak of an upstairs floorboard. It was ever so slight and he only heard it because he’d been listening for it.

  “I told the regular man that I can’t pay,” Simpson said defiantly, appearing not to have heard the noise or pretending not to. “I’ve already paid double what I borrowed and I’m not paying any more.”

  “Are you sure about that?” Riley said as he heard another creak, this time slightly louder than the last. Maybe on the stairs this time. “Because then we’ll have a big problem.”

  “Well... tough,” Simpson said and thrust his hands into his pockets. “I can’t pay. Simple as that.”

  A noise from the hall.

  A shuffle of feet, ever so slight.

  Another groan from an old floorboard.

  Riley checked the reflection in the window before flicking his eyes in the direction of the kitchen. Both doors were still closed, but he knew they wouldn’t remain that way for long.

  “Why did you invite me in if you can’t pay?” he asked.

  “Because I didn’t want to do this on my doorstep where the neighbours might see.” Simpson’s voice remained flat, but the little twitch affecting his lower lip showed he was nervous. Then his eyes flicked briefly to the door to the hall and then back to Riley. A dead give away. “I want to make the message clear. I’m not afraid of you and definitely not afraid of your thug boss. I’m not paying anymore. Mike Nash has gotten his last penny from me.”

  Time to see where this is going, Riley thought.

  He dropped the paperwork to the floor and balled his hands into fists for effect.

  “Well, Mr Simpson,” he said, as menacingly as he could. “You know what has to happen now, don’t you?”

  That’s when the opening door reflected in the window.

  That’s when a dark shape burst into the room and heavy footsteps pounded the carpet behind Riley.

  And that’s when Riley looked into Simpson’s eyes and shook his head.

  You silly old fool. I was gonna do you a favour.

  3

  Riley turned to face the figure racing at him and assessed the danger in a split second.

  The man was about six-foot tall, was broad shouldered and moved swiftly on powerful looking legs - enough to suggest that he could handle himself in a tussle. He was dressed head to toe in black, his face covered by a balaclava so that only his eyes and mouth were visible, but it was the look in those eyes and the snarl of that mouth that told Riley that this man, whoever he was, intended to use the wooden cosh that was raised above his head and that it wasn’t just there to intimidate the enemy.

  But then Riley wasn’t here to be intimidated, he was here to do a job, and that job had now changed. He’d come to collect a simple debt. Now he was in danger of leaving with a fractured skull.

  Working for Mike Nash was certainly more eventful than nine ‘til five in an office, at least!

  Instead of backing away, Riley stepped forward, his fists held out in front of him.

  The man coming at him stopped in his tracks and Riley saw confusion flicker in his eyes. He obviously hadn’t expected this. He’d expected Riley to panic and back off. His plan hadn’t worked out and he now had to think on his feet, and if you weren’t used to this sort of situation then having to think on your feet led to panic. And panic led to mistakes.

  Mistake one occurred when the man swung the cosh without getting close enough to his target – which appeared to be Riley’s head - and he missed completely as Riley dodged away and repositioned himself to the side of his attacker. The man’s second and biggest mistake was that after failing with his first assault he took too long to regain his composure and launch another. This gave Riley the chance to ram his forehead into the balaclava clad face, knocking his attacker off balance, and it also gave him the chance to wrestle the cosh out of the man’s hands as he stumbled backwards, obviously hurt. A good hit to the nose was as disabling as a good hit to the nuts. His eyes would water. His head would pound. His thoughts would fog. But after Riley swung the cosh sideways and slammed it against the side of the man’s right knee, the sound like that of a cricket bat on a cork ball going for a six, and after the man’s leg bowed inwards and he collapsed to the floor screaming, Riley guessed the blow to his nose wouldn’t bother him so much anymore.

  “No, stop!” Mr Simpson yelled. “Please...”

  Then there was another voice, filling the room expletives.

  “Fucking bastard!”

  Riley turned and saw a
second figure coming at him from the doorway to the kitchen. He was dressed identically to the one rolling on the floor clutching his shattered kneecap and had obviously been hiding out there waiting for his mate to make the first move. Maybe if he hadn’t shouted then he might have been able to spring a surprise attack and catch Riley with his back turned. Fucking amateur. Some people just didn’t have a clue when it came to fighting.

  This time the weapon was a crowbar, but because his companion hadn’t fared well in the previous attack this one seemed less confident to rush in. Instead, he edged forward gingerly, seeming unsure whether to attack, stand back and defend himself or leg it the hell out of here.

  Riley wasn’t so slow to make up his mind and marched forward. Sometimes the best form of self-defence was attack. Take the opponent by surprise by showing no fear.

  Before he’d gotten halfway the man hurled the crowbar forward. It missed Riley’s head by no more than six inches and slammed into the far wall, chipping the wallpaper and dislodging a painting of a vase and some flowers. Riley didn’t miss, and as the man turned to run the cosh caught him on the right shoulder.

  He yelped in pain, the blow spinning him around to face Riley, who quickly repositioned himself for a head shot. He raised the weapon and then thought twice about using it. He had no intention of killing anyone, not even in self defence, and a blow to head could spell the end for this guy. So he dropped it and instead chose to smash his fist into the balaclava, right where he guessed the man’s nose was, once, twice... and then a third time in rapid succession. Two seconds later the man was on the floor, out cold. He would probably come round in a minute or so and wonder what the hell had happened, but apart from a pulped nose and maybe a few loose teeth, there wouldn’t be any permanent damage and so should count himself lucky.