by Lee Stevens
Riley watched as McCabe lifted the hammer from the portable table.
“Oh,” McCabe said, “just in case you’re wondering, I met Diane last Christmas, in Twilight nightclub, can you believe? They say everyone has a soul mate, I guess she’s mine. She likes the bad boys. When I found out she was a copper I was ready to give her the elbow but she’s too good in the sack for that. Really knows how to please a man - you get what I mean? But then I found out that she had a grudge against Dainton, that she’d tried to put him away a few years ago and was still pissed that he got off with the charges, and the whole thing fell into place.” McCabe put the hammer on the plastic sheeting below Riley’s feet. Then he began to line up the rest of the tools next to it; the pliers, the hack saw; the blow torch...
Riley’s stomach sank down to his feet.
“The original plan was to make it look like Dainton had taken out Nash and we go after Dainton,” McCabe said as he worked. “When Nash survived the shooting, we had to think of something else. I thought that if we got to Dainton somehow, he’d have no choice but to go after Nash again. So I proposed that we kill Dainton’s nephew and set the ball rolling. Dainton then comes back with the bombs - yeah, he was really behind that one. That was a genuine attack. Had nothing to do with me. Well, I did provide Rodgers with the information about the funeral and Nash’s movements and in turn he told me about the strength of the explosion. That’s why me and Turner arrived late at the club. Anyway, when Nash survived that time too, we had to rethink things again. Last night, Rodgers told me about this big deal that’s going down next week. Said Dainton would be there with all his top boys and he gave me the location and said it would be a good place to take him out. The problem with that is that Nash is still alive and well and so we would be back to square one. What’s the point of having Dainton out of the way if Nash is still here? Then we got the call about Purvis and, believe it or not, you fucking us over put all the pieces in place.”
Riley had been listening intently, trying to distract his thoughts from the array of tools beneath his feet. Now he frowned, confused by his and Purvis’s role in all of this.
“You were asking why I’m so interested in finding Purvis and the kid,” McCabe said. “Well, here it is. Tonight, you’re going to tell me where they are. Me, Nash and Turner are then going to pay them a visit. Now, to be honest, I don’t give a fuck about Purvis or Sandra. But because they know my little secret about helping to get Nash killed, then I can’t take the chance at having them live. Wendy will be a shame, but having no parents, death’ll be easier for her. And don’t worry, with her I will make it quick. I’m not a total animal.”
Every muscle in Riley’s body tensed as his fists squeezed together, pumping more blood from the cuts on his wrists.
“Anyway, there’ll be a shootout when we find Purvis. Purvis isn’t giving up without a fight. Eventually, we’ll take him out. Unfortunately though, Nash will get a bullet in the head. We’ll all mourn. All the boys in the firm will mourn but soon it’ll have to be business as usually, with Turner and myself running things. Then, next week, Dainton and his main men will be arrested in a mass raid overseen by none other than our good friend DS Davison and will be out the picture for ever. He’ll get at least twenty years and will die in prison. Rodgers will then join us with a few of his loyal men and we’ll have the whole of Thirnbridge to control and have the back up of a newly promoted copper who will have put one of this city’s most notorious criminals behind bars. It all works out for everyone, Riley, and you could’ve been part of it.”
McCabe leant close to him and suddenly ripped the duct tape from his mouth.
Before Riley could even catch his breath, McCabe smashed a fist into his face, bloodying his nose and causing his eyes to stream tears.
“That’s for last night,” he said, pointing to his own damaged nose.
Riley spat blood that had pooled from both nostrils and ran into his mouth. He knew his nose was broken without feeling the pain. One nostril had closed up instantly and he couldn’t inhale through it.
“I’m still not going to tell you where Purvis and Wendy are,” he said, defiantly.
“I know that.” McCabe stooped and picked up the screwdriver from the line of tools. He ran the pointed tip of it down Riley’s face, welting the skin but not breaking it. “You will, though.”
“Will I?” Riley asked, sarcastically.
“Oh, yes,” McCabe replied. “But not right away. Let’s see how long you hold out until you spill the beans. I know you’re tough, Riley. I hope you’re as tough as people say you are.”
McCabe then bent down again and began to re-arrange the tools, probably in the order that they were to be used; pliers first, metal cutters second, where’s the nail-gun... oh, there it is, right after the hacksaw. Everything in order.
“You know,” he said. “People often get confused about torture. They think it’s all about killing someone slowly. They’re wrong. It’s about keeping someone alive as long as possible but in as much pain as possible. It takes skill, Riley. Not everyone can do it.”
Riley let his mind wander as McCabe waffled on. He’d gotten everything he’d needed – including those extra little nuggets about Davison and Turner being involved. Now, he just had to waste a little time and pray to God that Purvis had done what he had to do. If he hadn’t, then Riley was about to put himself through an awful lot for absolutely nothing.
He looked down at his clothes and wallet on the workbench. At the keys to the cuffs and manacles next to them. At his mobile phone. Then McCabe stood up in front of him and rapidly opened and closed the pliers he held in his right hand.
The snapping sounds sent shivers through Riley and in that instance they reminded him of vicious teeth in the mouth of some hideous little creature.
Again he tried not to think about what was about to happen to him.
“I hope you don’t give up too soon, Riley,” McCabe said.
Riley spat more blood and watched it land on the plastic sheeting.
“You’ll not be disappointed, McCabe” he said. “Do your worst.”
Then he closed his eyes.
56
As usual at nine o’clock on a Saturday, Lenny Dainton was alone in his living room, sat in his armchair by the picture window that looked out over his grounds whilst listening to a classical CD and reading a good book. Tonight was Bach’s Symphony five and the battered paperback was Dumas’s The Count of Monte Cristo. It was his favourite. He’d first read it in prison nearly thirty years ago (during a stint for armed robbery in his wild, younger days) and had gone back to it several times in the intervening years. The subject matter of revenge and power appealed to him and had changed his life – well, his views on life at least. He was never going to be a prisoner again. He was going to be a winner. He was going to be in control of his own existence and not dwell on the past. That was one of the reasons he was at home at nine on a Saturday night, listening to Bach and reading a novel more than a hundred and fifty years old. Just because you had money, you didn’t need to spend it wildly and you certainly didn’t need to waste it on alcohol, sex, and cholesterol stuffed foods at Michelin Starred restaurants. No, a healthy body and a healthy mind, that’s all he craved. The prostate scare two years ago had confirmed his belief that those two things were the most important things in life. He enjoyed semi-retirement – well, semi-semi-retirement if the truth be told. There was always another business opportunity to be had, another big deal to be made. Like the one next week. An extra two million a year couldn’t be turned down. And from something as simple as some party pills imported from Holland at less than a penny each that would be resold for two pounds each to every street dealer he could find. If he still had control of the docks then it would be an easy transaction but, alas, he’d lost them long ago. No, a new plan had been hatched. A light plane and a strip of recently purchased land for it to touch down on had been needed. Now all of that was in place and his contacts from the Netherlan
ds would be meeting with him in six days time to finalise everything. If it hadn’t been for the recent problems with Mike Nash everything would be rosy. He could have done without this little war. But he hadn’t been the aggressor here; he’d been the victim. The bombs planted at the mansion and the private club, the attack on Nash’s bar last night, and whatever else he might have to do in the near future, they were all acts of self-defence. If he had any hope of surviving this battle then he had to destroy Nash first!
Dainton inserted the bookmark, closed the paperback and stared out at the grounds of his mansion. Most people would feel uncomfortable living alone in such a huge property but not him. He’d always been more than comfortable with his own company, even before his time behind bars. Obviously a wife or girlfriend to spend his life with had always been out of the question. He’d known he was gay since his teenage years but had never given into his urges. In one way he was disgusted in himself for what he was yet in another he was proud he’d had the strength to remain celibate. From an early age he’d never tried to get close to anyone or allow anyone to get close to him, not even his family. And now, as a man in his sixties he was content to see out the rest of his life alone with only his housekeeper at the mansion for company. Sure, his nephew’s killing had been a blow, but it wasn’t the pain of loss he felt. No, it was the thought that someone had dared take Mark’s life in order to get to him. This thing with Nash had to end soon and Dainton was confident he had the brains to come out the winner.
Just like Dantes in Dumas’s famous novel, he would be the victor.
The intercom on the wall suddenly buzzed and Dainton pressed the button on the sideboard next to him.
“I know you said you didn’t want any phone-calls unless they were urgent,” the voice of Mrs Wilkinson, his housekeeper, informed him, “but there’s someone on the line who says he really needs to speak with you.”
“And who is he?” Dainton asked.
“That’s just it, he didn’t say. He just said he needed to speak to you. That it was something to do with your nephew.”
Dainton knew that Mrs Wilkinson had no idea the fate that had befallen young Mark and so her reluctance to see the call as a priority didn’t surprise him.
“Put the call through to me,” he said. “And then retire for the night.”
“Very well, goodnight, Mr Dainton.”
“Yes, goodnight.”
Dainton dropped his book to the floor, crossed to the bar where the telephone was and it had barely rung before he snatched up the receiver and placed it to his ear.
“Who is this?” he snapped.
“Is that Lenny Dainton?”
He didn’t recognise the voice.
“You know damn well it is, you called me! Who the hell are you?”
“Is anyone else with you?”
“Do you want to stop pissing around and get to your point!”
“That is the point,” the caller said. “Before I talk I need to know that you’re alone and that no one else is listening to this call.”
“Yes, I’m alone and the phone line’s secure. How the hell did you get my number anyway? It’s not in the book.”
“I’m good with computers,” the caller said. “I can usually find what I want.”
“What do you want? Who are you and what do you know about my nephew?”
There was a brief pause before the caller spoke again.
“I’m gonna be straight with you. I used to work for Mike Nash.”
“Oh, yeah?” Dainton didn’t know what to expect next, but he certainly wasn’t going to hang up. Was this a trap of some sort?
“I’ve got some information for you,” the caller said.
“I’m not interested,” Dainton replied, sharply. “You and Nash and the rest of the fuckers on his payroll are on borrowed time.”
“I know who killed your nephew-”
“Nash was behind it and he’s going to get what’s coming to him,” Dainton interrupted.
“I know who tortured him. Plus, I know who set you up for the shooting at the club.”
Dainton sat down, the phone pressed against his ear. That he wasn’t expecting.
“And why would you tell me that?” he asked. “And do you think I’m gullible enough to believe you?”
“This is the truth,” the caller said. “Like I already told you, I used to work for Nash. I want him dead as much as you do. Trust me on that. This isn’t a set up.”
Dainton rubbed his brow. Wondered why he hadn’t hung up yet. This had to be a set-up.
“So come on then. Tell me.”
“It’s better if I show you,” the caller said.
“Show me what?”
“I’ve sent you an email.”
Dainton looked across the room at his laptop.
“How did you get my-?”
“I’m good with computers, I told you,” the caller said.
Dainton went to his laptop and clicked on his emails. He paused before opening the un-read message with the file attached.
“Why should I trust a word you say after all that’s happened?” he asked. “This reeks of a set up. What’s your game?”
“I’m being straight with you Mr Dainton!” the man said, urgently. “And I suggest you don’t tell your man Rodgers about this!”
Dainton crossed to the window and looked out. Two cars with four of his men in each were guarding the mansion. Rodgers was in one of them.
“Rodgers, why?”
“Because he’s not what you think he is,” the caller said. “You can’t trust him and I have the proof. Look, I’m not after any money for this. I simply want to give you this information because if you get rid of Nash you’ll be doing me a favour too.”
“Get back to that thing about Rodgers,” Dainton asked. “What’s he up to? What’s he done?”
“Just open the email and click on the attachment. There’s also a message with some instructions for you. Trust me on this.”
“I wish I could,” Dainton said as he clicked on the link and saw that it was some sort of media file. Video or photo or something.
“You can,” the caller said. “No doubt you heard that one of Nash’s men ran off with his girlfriend and daughter and that Nash wants him dead.”
“Yes, I heard.” Dainton even smiled at the thought of his enemy being screwed over. “News travels fast. Anyway, what about it?”
There was another pause on the line while he waited for the caller to speak again. When he did, Dainton was finally convinced that this call was genuine.
“Well, that was me,” the caller said. “I’m Dylan Purvis.”
57
Having the bullet pulled from him was a doddle compared to this but his counting technique was the only way he knew to cope with it.
He’d started at ten thousand and tried counting backwards in denominations of thirty-seven. With his eyes closed and the numbers in his head, he’d been able to separate himself from his physical body and only felt slight tugging or pulling sensation when McCabe worked on him, starting on his feet with the metal cutters. He’d let out a groan or a hiss of pain every now and again for McCabe’s benefit and on the frequent occasions when McCabe took a break and asked him where Purvis was, Riley had gritted his teeth and shaken his head defiantly.
McCabe sighed theatrically after each answer and then went at him again. He’d used pliers on Riley’s toenails and the metal cutters on the toes themselves, snipping three clean off from the foot and throwing them in the furnace before halting the bleeding with the blowtorch. He had then flayed skin from Riley’s lower legs with a Stanley knife, used the drill on his kneecaps and the blow torch on his genitals and torso.
Riley had tried not to think about the state of his body, but human curiosity had gotten the better of him several times and he’d looked down at himself just in time to see another piece of skin being cut away or burnt. The room smelled of singed flesh and the metallic odour from before had been replaced instead by the i
ron-rich scent of blood usually found in butcher’s shops. The plastic sheeting had gathered up his blood perfectly and it had been the noise of it dripping ceaselessly that had finally cracked Riley.
It was like the infamous Chinese Water Torture.
Drip... drip... drip...
It drove you mad after a while.
He’d begun to feel weak and dizzy, and after the dripping sound refused to leave him alone he’d felt the urge to vomit. But as his stomach contracted the dripping of his blood grew louder and louder in his ears, sending him into more of a delirium, causing his heart rate to soar which in turn made the blood drip faster and faster, the noise pounding his ears, making his head spin, and when McCabe stopped cutting, slicing and burning him and stepped back to admire his handy work and asked the question (“Where are they?”), Riley had finally blacked out.
He dreamt of train wrecks and car crashes. Of dead parents and dead children.
When he came to, McCabe was sitting back in the seat opposite him, drinking from a bottle of lager. He sweating and was splattered with Riley’s blood.
Riley looked down when he realised the dripping sound had stopped. The plastic sheet was still covered but he noticed that most of his wounds had stopped bleeding and instead looked purple and jellied over.
It’s about keeping me alive for as long as possible, Riley reminded himself. But in as much pain as possible...
Well, one out of two isn’t bad.
There were no windows back here and so Riley had no natural light to try and guess the time of day or night. He’d only managed to get to seven-thousand five-hundred and ninety-five before passing out.
Counting one subtraction as being between five and thirty seconds long, that made...
(Riley tried to unscramble his brain and do a quick sum)
... fuck knows. Plus, he’d been unconscious for a little while. Had McCabe been torturing him for an hour? Two? Or was it one of those situations where time stands still. Had it only been twenty minutes? Or fifteen?