Numb: A Dark Thriller

by Lee Stevens

  Riley then turned on Terry Simpson who was standing with his mouth hanging open, frozen on the spot in front of the fireplace.

  “You stupid old fucker! What the Hell was that about?”

  “I... I wanted to-”

  Riley didn’t let Simpson finish. He grabbed him by his shirt collar and dragged him closer so that their faces were only inches apart.

  “You what? Wanted to teach me a lesson? Smash my brains in? Are you for fucking real? I’m not some troublesome salesman who won’t take no for an answer, and Mike Nash isn’t the sort of bloke who takes kindly to this sort of shit.”

  “I don’t care!” Simpson yelled and when the tears followed, Riley released his grip on the older man who sank to his knees. “I don’t care. I just wanted it over... I just wanted it over...”

  Riley’s adrenalin rush was soon replaced by a wave of guilt. The old guy was desperate, scared for his life. He couldn’t pay up and instead of running he’d decided to fight, like Howden had suggested. It was a stupid move but he couldn’t be blamed for trying.

  “You can’t settle your debt this way,” Riley said, calmly. He looked at the screaming man clutching his knee. Then at the other whose eyes were now flickering and who was grunting like an injured pig. “So who’re the hired muscle?”

  “My nephews,” Simpson said, getting to his feet and wiping his damp eyes with the sleeve of his shirt. “Please don’t hurt them anymore.”

  “I take it that all of this was their idea?”Simpson snorted back snot and nodded.

  “They live in Liverpool,” he said. “I was over there a couple of weeks ago for a family party. After a few drinks I told them about the trouble I’ve been having with the repayments. They’d never heard of Mike Nash and they’re both big lads – rugby players - and they said they’d come over here and sort it. I tried to talk them out of it but they wouldn’t let it go. So when I heard you were going to pay me a visit today I called them. I didn’t know what else to do.”

  “And what were you planning to do after taking me out?” Riley asked, genuinely interested in how Simpson thought he was going to get away with this. “Nash would just send more people here. Were you going to take them all on?”

  “I didn’t want you hurt,” Simpson said. “Not if you were going to leave without starting anything. They were just going to threaten you. Scare you off. The plan was that after we dealt with the situation then I was to go back to Liverpool with them. I was going to move in with their mother, my younger sister. She has a spare room. She’s divorced and would like the company. This is a council house. I could just leave and Nash wouldn’t find me.”

  “So why didn’t you just leave before I was due to come here?”

  Simpson shook his head. He looked embarrassed.

  “I wanted to, but my nephews were angry after I told them about the threats against me. I guess they wanted a little payback, even if it was just a verbal warning to leave me alone. You can understand that, can’t you?”

  Riley didn’t answer. Instead he walked to the man with busted kneecap and pulled off the balaclava. He looked about twenty, twenty-one. Fair-haired and blue eyed. Probably only shaved once a month. He was a big lad but he still had the face of a kid. Blood was pooling from both nostrils and his nose was beginning to bruise. It looked broken but he didn’t seem too concerned about it.

  “Please,” he said, clutching his leg. “My knee... call an ambulance...”

  Riley put his finger to his lips and ordered the lad to be silent. Then he pulled out his mobile phone.

  “What are you going to do?” Simpson asked, panicking.

  “Be quiet,” Riley told him as he waited for the call to connect. Then, when Howden answered, he said, “Everything’s alright. Just getting the money now. Yeah, the bloke has it. Give me five minutes.” Then he hung up and put his phone back in his pocket.

  “Why did you say that I had the money?” Simpson asked, confused.

  “You owe three thousand, two hundred, Mr Simpson,” Riley said, picking up the paperwork he’d dropped earlier. “This has to be paid today or we’ll have to take a lower payment, maybe some belongings, and then interest will be charged and you’ll be even deeper in the shit.”Simpson sniffed his nose again and lowered his head.

  “I told you that I don’t have anything,” he said, quietly. “So do what you have to do.”

  Riley nodded. Yes, he would. He would overlook the little thing with the two nephews for starters. If the situation was reversed, and he found out an elderly relative was getting fleeced for everything he had, he’d have done the same thing. It shouldn’t be held against them – even if they had fucked it up.

  “You got any alcohol in here, Mr Simpson?” he asked.

  The question seemed to take the older man by surprise.

  “I’m sorry, what?”

  “Booze,” Riley said. “Spirits, preferably.”

  “There’s a bottle of cheap whisky in the cupboard behind you.”

  “Cheap’s okay. It’s not for me.”

  Riley found the bottle, unscrewed the top and handed it to the screaming, semi-crippled nephew. The other one still wasn’t fully awake yet and the only liquid he’d be able to handle would be through a drip.

  “Drink as much as you can,” he said. “It’ll help the pain a little.”

  The lad hesitated but eventually began to slurp down the amber fluid straight from the bottle. Riley then turned back to Simpson, put his hand in his inside pocket and pulled out a wad of cash totalling five grand.

  “I’m going to offer you a deal,” he said. “You have two choices. The first is that I go back to my boss and tell him that you can’t pay and explain everything that’s happened here this afternoon. Then there will be consequences – I think you understand what I mean by that?”Simpson nodded as he wiped his damp eyes. “The second is that I pay Nash what you owe and you pay me back.”

  Simpson looked like he was about to burst out laughing.

  “Out of the frying pan and into the fire,” he said. “How will that help me? I can’t afford to pay Nash so how can I pay you?”

  “How much can you afford a month?” Riley asked. “Comfortably afford a month?”

  Simpson shrugged. Then said: “Two hundred, like agreed. I have a small private pension. I get a few benefits and help with the rent and council tax on this place. Yes, two hundred.”

  “Right,” Riley said. “You pay two hundred month and the debt’s cleared in eighteen months.”“What about interest?”

  “No interest. I’m doing you a favour. I pay Nash today and he’ll think you cleared your debt fair and square. He’ll not bother you again, I promise. Then I’ll stop by on the first of every month to collect my money and when it’s paid back you’ll not see me again either.”

  Simpson stared at the money in Riley’s hands. The nephew with the fresh limp continued to drink. The other had rolled on his side and had started to groan and mumble like he had the world’s worst hangover.

  “How do I know I can trust you?” Simpson finally asked.

  “Look,” Riley said, wanting this over with. “I could call Nash now and tell him what’s gone on. Within half an hour ten of his men would be round here and you and your nephews would never be seen again and they’d take whatever they could from your house to get what you owe. But I don’t want that.” He separated three thousand two hundred in twenty pound notes from the bundle he held and showed them to Simpson. “So, what do you say?”

  Simpson took a long breath. Then he glanced from one nephew to the other. And then he nodded.

  “Good,” Riley said. “Got an envelope?”

  “A what?”“An envelope – for the money. It’ll look better.”

  “Yeah, I think I have one in one of the kitchen drawers.”

  “Get it.”

  A minute later, when Simpson returned from the kitchen with a small brown envelope, Riley wrote PAID UP in big letters across Simpson’s paperwork and bundled the cash insid
e the envelope. Receipts for the customer weren’t required.

  “I’ll tell Nash you’re square.” Riley then looked at the two nephews. The one drinking was a little quieter now but his face was still contorted in pain. The other had pulled off his balaclava and was sitting up. His face was red with blood from his top lip to his chin and he was staring around like he didn’t know where he was. “As for them, have them finish off that whisky and then call an ambulance. Tell the paramedics they were drunk and had a scuffle and fell down the stairs. Don’t tell them what’s gone on here.”

  “I won’t.”

  “Make sure they stick to the story. If Nash finds out what’s gone on here he’ll be pissed. Then I’ll be pissed and pay you another visit.” An idle threat, but one that had to be made.

  “They’ll stick to the story,” Simpson said. “I don’t think they’d want their mother to know the plan they had. She thought they were just coming to pick me up. She thought I just didn’t want to live on my own since Marie died. She didn’t know about the trouble or anything.”

  “So what are you going to tell her now?”

  Simpson shrugged.

  “That I changed my mind about leaving here. I didn’t really want to leave anyway. I shared this house with my wife for over forty years. She might be dead but I... I can still feel her here.”

  Riley wanted to leave before the old guy started crying again. He sounded on the verge of it.

  “I’ll see you on the first of next month, Mr Simpson.” He headed for the door but stopped when he noticed the framed picture on the cabinet. He’d missed it on the way in and now wished he’d missed it on the way out. It showed Simpson and a lady who Riley assumed to be his deceased wife. Simpson looked much the same as he did now. His wife looked very thin and very frail. Her skin was tinged yellow and the hairs on her head were mere wisps of grey. She smiled broadly but painfully as they both posed in front of the cake at the foot of the bed. Riley could just make out the candles that formed the number 40 and the word ‘anniversary’ in icing.

  Suddenly, the bottom fell out of his stomach.

  “I’m sorry,” he said quietly.

  “For what?” Simpson asked.

  For everything, Riley thought, but said, “For your loss. I heard it was... recent.”

  “Three months ago,” Simpson said, a sudden strength in his voice, like he wanted to get something off his chest. “My wife was dying when I borrowed the money. The cancer had spread to her liver and was terminal. I had to give up work to look after her. We never had kids and so I was the only one. My sister and her boys live in Liverpool and couldn’t be on hand all the time. When we found out she was on borrowed time she made it clear that she wanted to die at home and not in some hospice. She was in a wheelchair by then and would need a stair lift. I had already used up most of our savings after leaving work and I couldn’t get a loan with any banks to have one installed. Then I saw an advert in the local paper for Fast Track Loans. It all seemed legitimate. I had no idea Mike Nash was involved until I had trouble paying.”

  Most people don’t know he’s involved, Riley thought. Why do you think he get’s so much business?

  “Since her death I haven’t been able to get another job and can’t manage the higher repayments. I’m an electrician – contract work, mostly. Being sixty-three I suppose it’s understandable that employers don’t want to know.” Simpson then smiled. His eyes glazed over. Grief tinged with happy memories. “My wife saw our fortieth anniversary and died three days later in her own bed. But at least she died at home, with me beside her like she’d wanted. She didn’t know where I’d gotten the money in order to have her live her final months at home. I didn’t want to burden her with those kinds of problems with what she was going through. But I don’t regret borrowing the money, not at all. Because I had her with me until the very end.” He was still smiling when a single tear rolled down one of his pale cheeks.

  And that was Riley’s excuse to leave.

  “I’ll see you in a month, Mr Simpson,” he said and couldn’t get out the house quick enough.

  He sucked in the cool afternoon air as he made his way back to the Mercedes under a sky that suddenly seemed devoid of a sun, a sky that had turned a drab grey, threatening rain. Maybe it just seemed gloomier because of the way he felt. Violence he could deal with. Grief, on the other hand, was trickier and he was glad to be out of there. Despite offering Mr Simpson a way out of debt and freeing him from Nash’s grip, Riley still felt like he had swallowed a led weight and was ashamed of calling on the older man at all.

  “What took you so long?” Howden asked as Riley climbed behind the wheel.

  “I told you. He was counting the money.” Riley tossed the envelope at Howden.

  “It took a while. Was he paying in pennies?” Howden looked inside the envelope. Leafed through the notes. Did a quick count. “That’s all of what he owed. So what fees did you hit him with to keep the debt going?”

  “None.” Riley tucked the paperwork in his pocket.

  “Eh?”

  “He’s cleared his debt. It’s finished.”

  “Nash won’t like that. It’s not you’re place to make those decisions.”

  “Leave Nash to me,” Riley said and started the engine. “Two more to do and then that’s us for the day.” He placed his hands on the steering wheel and saw the smear of blood on the knuckles of his right hand. The thin cut underneath had obviously been made by the second nephew’s teeth. Riley dropped his hand down to his lap, hiding the wound from Howden as he pulled away from the kerb and headed out of the estate. He’d have to treat it later on. Something like that could become infected. The mouth was full of germs and bite marks were notorious for carrying bacteria. But it was nothing to worry about just yet. After all, he’d had worse in the past.

  And had he not seen the blood, he wouldn’t have known the wound was even there.

  4

  The sitting room inside the upstairs flat on the north side of the river was what an estate agent might describe as “in need of some refurbishment.”

  Most others would simply say that it was a dump.

  The paper was nicotine stained and hanging off the walls like diseased flesh, the carpet was worn and littered with crumbs and rubbish and there were several damp patches staining the ceiling. The only furniture was a battered sofa and small coffee table full of empty drinks cans. Surprisingly, however, there was a HD television on the wall and a games console and DVD/BLURAY player underneath - which showed the priorities of the owners. The place stank of sweat and smoke and beer, and two of the three men inside smelled the same. Both wore jeans and T-shirts and neither had shaved in days. One of them was Brian Wilcox; Caucasian, twenty-eight and unemployed. The other was Marlon Tennant; black, twenty-nine and also out of work. The third man was smartly dressed in a dark blue suit, smelled of expensive aftershave and was more muscular than the skinny pair sat on the sofa. His name was Shaun Rodgers, forty-three years old, four of the last five of which had been wasted in prison.

  “So, let’s go over this one last time,” he said, looking down at Wilcox and Tennant, cans of lager in their grimy hands, their eyes glued to the television. “You tell me the plan, so I know that you both understand.”

  “We’re not fucking thick,” Tennant answered. He glanced up at Rodgers and when he saw the look in the older man’s eyes he looked down at the floor and took a cold mouthful of lager. Then, in a more respectful tone, he said, “We pick up the first car at the multi-storey.” He picked up the first set of car keys from the coffee table. “Red Corsa, parked on floor D, bay twenty-two. We drive to the ferry landing and leave it in the car park. Then we walk to the disused steelworks by the river and pick up the car that’s been left there.” He picked up the second set of car keys. “Black Peugeot. The gun will be under the tarp in the boot, loaded with thirty-two rounds. Then we drive to the club and wait around the corner until the call comes to tell us that they’re outside. Then we drive by,
do the job and disappear into the night.”

  “Where to?” Rodgers asked.

  Wilcox took over, as if to prove he knew the score also.

  “We head back to the steelworks and ditch the Peugeot and the gun in the river. There’s a spot nearby where the car will roll down the riverbank if we take the handbrake off and give it a little push. Then we walk back the ferry landing and drive the Corsa back to the multi storey in the city centre. The security cameras inside will then show us arriving back in the same car we left in. Then we both go our separate ways and meet back here to celebrate.”

  Rodgers nodded. Hoo-fucking-ray, they’d finally got it.

  “Just make sure you two are better dressed tonight so you’ll blend in with the rest of the Friday night crowd,” he said. “You don’t want to stand out and draw attention to yourselves.”

  “I’ll even shave for the occasion,” Tennant said and rubbed the week’s growth on his chin before downing the rest of his can.

  “And don’t get too pissed so you can’t fucking drive straight, let alone shoot straight.”

  Tennant laughed, dropped his empty can to the floor and held up his hands.

  “Whatever you say. I don’t want to spoil a good thing.”

  “No you don’t,” Rodgers said. “Remember, this job’s worth five grand.”

  Wilcox and Tennant high-fived. Then Wilcox leant over the coffee table, laid out three cigarette papers and picked up the bag of cannabis.

  “And don’t smoke too much of that shit so you both fall asleep.”

  “It’s just to help us relax,” Wilcox said, spilling some of the green herb onto the papers. “This shit tonight’s the biggest thing we’ve done.”

  “Exactly, so don’t fuck it up.” Rodgers shook his head as Wilcox rolled the joint. Drugs had never been his thing. “Right, if you two are sure you know what’s what, I’ll get going.”

  “Aren’t you forgetting something?” Tennant held up a hand and rubbed his thumb against his first two fingers.