by Karen Botha
I drag myself into it and check the ignition. Shit! No key. I flip the sun visor down. Nothing. Grr. My hands shake. I bend to scan under the seat, my scorched side catches and I stifle a scream. Still nothing. I pop my head up, try to catch a glimpse of the green John Deere, but can’t see the ignition; it’s hidden by the window frame.
I’m going to have to get over there. After a quick glance round, I don’t spot anyone so I click the door open and slide outside. It’s cold, but perspiration prickles my forehead.
I crouch low and creep to the emerald tractor, shooting a look sideways. The handle is jammed. My breathing is rapid, loud. I concentrate on keeping calm, on delivering enough oxygen to my brain to allow me the power of clear thinking. I force the handle again, lever it up with two hands, wrestling it as high as I can. I dip down and press up through my thumbs. It’s stuck. I need to check the other side, the one in the clear open space. My heart sinks. I scan from left to right, making sure nobody’s around, searching for a solution that means I don’t have to run through a clearing.
Nothing.
I crouch and slip under the tractor floor. I poke my head out, flicking my eyes in an arc. They’re coming back. I can’t see anyone yet, but their voices are growing louder. I jump out and twist the stiff handle. I hold my breath. Please open. It clicks. The door releases a few centimetres. I pull it, ready to crawl in.
It creaks.
‘She’s there!’ One I’ve not seen before, but dressed in the obligatory dirty jeans and t-shirt, points at me. The barn fire forgotten they focus their aggression on me.
I haul myself into the driver’s seat and slam my fingers against the ignition. No keys here either. Pulling the visor, they smash on my lap. The shock makes me jump and they fall to the floor. Shit! My hands are shaking as I search by the pedals.
The door opens.
‘Get her.’ The same one grabs at me. Remembering my krav maga training, I twist and slam the base of my hand into his nose. His body lurches forward as he screams, grabbing at his bust nose. I kick him. But his mate has arrived and he punches me, catching my jaw with a heavy fist. My eyes roll back. Focus. Where is that damned key?
If I can get this thing started, I can run over the bloody lot of them. I bend. Someone grabs at my waist. I hang onto the steering wheel. I spot the keys; they’re on the floor on the opposite side of the cab. I catch sight of the wing mirror. The vehicle is surrounded. I’m surrounded. I must to do this.
With a final haul of strength, I release my left arm and kick out with my leg in one simultaneous movement catching my wannabe captor in the chest. He lets go for a few seconds, giving me just enough time to pick the key up. I sit, my trembling hands unable to slot the key to my freedom in its matching hole.
‘Get here you pig.’ My attacker says it with such venom he surely knows who I am. Do they know more than we ever realised? How? Does this run deeper than we assumed? All this has time to play out in my mind whilst I’m being punched in the gut. Someone tugs at my bra, the flimsy elastic snaps and my breasts spill out at the same time as I’m dragged outside and dumped on the ground. As soon as I stand, someone kicks my chest, pushing me back down. I fall backwards, stand, and another high-level kick snatches the breath from my lungs and the stability from my legs. I plummet floor-bound again.
The group are gathered in a semi-circle laughing, whooping, and cheering at my downfall. I’m out of air, someone is tightening a noose around my throat. A chill burns my insides, my muscles are on fire, misbehaving and spasming in panic. I fall to one side, and clutch my neck, rasping, begging for air.
‘Let’s finish her off,’ a voice jeers. It rings through the mayhem like an alarm through a dream. Before I’ve had a chance to react, pain slashes my torso. Kicks connect with my front and back, my head and face a practise for their football training.
Every part of me is mangled, battered, or wounded. I ache, I feel sick, and when I breathe, it's like I’m being stabbed. My naked back is on cold metal. We’re moving.
A momentary, shameful, thought flies through my brain, ‘Oh no, we’re on the move again, please let this end.’ Then I realise what this ending entails. Whilst the pain is still ongoing, so is my life. Only my right eye will open; the other is swollen shut. I wait whilst my one good eye focuses. I’m in another van, but not in the box they’d kept me in before. Just in the back. By the look of it, it’s an old beat-up van. I hear two deep voices in the cab laughing and joking.
‘Let’s see how much she likes fire now shall we?’
‘Yeah, the bitch hoped she could escape. Stupid pig. We’ll show her what happens when you set Williams’ barn on fire.’
‘We’ve gotta make sure she’s come round though. I wanna film the fear in her eyes.’
‘We’ll make a fortune from that one.’
I will not be defined by what has happened over the last twenty-four hours. And I will not be going up in a ball of flames. I shuffle over to the rear door. Half-naked and scared to my core, I wait.
We stop. They both hop out, not a care in their world. Their footsteps sound like they’re walking off, away from the van. My strategy was to run as soon as they opened the doors, but I’m sure they’ve left me. I study the rear. There’s a plastic panel covering the back with space to get my fingers in. Worth a try. I rattle it around and finally, it snaps. The panel lifts free from the door, my hope soars. My cracked ribs are no bother; I have no sense of pain. I have this chance.
I pull the cable that feeds to the lock. Nothing. I push down. Still nothing happens, but I spot another cable above it - the door opens a crack when I pull it down.
I’m gifted the power of sight. Through the bright slit of light, I identify a petrol forecourt. There’s a family out for a day trip filling their tank, a cab driver tapping his fingers on his roof as he waits for the diesel to pump, and a young couple, fresh love written all over their faces as he fills her pink Beetle. My breath echoes through my ears.
My two captors are Ginger, his scrawny stature defying his strength, and the one who was grabbing me out of the cab earlier. They’re heading back towards the van with bottles of whiskey and a petrol canister.
This is it. That canister is meant for me.
I pull the door closed.
They hop back in the cab, laughing and joking, full of the joys. Sick bastards. There's a clink of glass. They’re toasting my demise.
I lurch forwards as they reverse, hanging on to a strap hole on the side. I may want to escape, but leaving when we're in reverse gear is not a strategy for survival. However, when the momentum stops briefly before clunking into first gear, I’m out.
I run, shouting as loud as my lungs allow. I wave my arms above my head, doing anything I can to draw attention to myself. Long forgotten the hush of a few seconds previous.
The van pauses. And then there’s a squealing of tyres as they realise their mistake. Dust scatters and they leave me there, escaping with their rear doors flapping. I’m free.
The cabbie spots me first. Hands to mouth, he abandons his tank and runs over, pulling his jacket off.
‘Here darling, take this.’ He wraps it round my shoulders. I'm aware of my nakedness for the first time. My skin is shuddering under the alien warmth of this substantial covering. ‘Someone call the police,’ he shouts.
It’s only now that I wonder what happened to my mobile phone. Ugh! This will be how they know I’m connected with Adam, or the police or whoever the hell it is their beef is with. I had it in my hand when I went into the house; I must have dropped it when they knocked me over the head.
I don’t know anyone’s number. ‘Please, call the Met police and ask to be put through to Steve or Mo on the murder squad.’
Adam
The security room reverberates with life. Camera operatives pass information between each other, monitoring gambling action, and recording it for later scrutiny, if required.
I have different teams, some looking out for new potential issues, other spotting known fraudste
rs with our facial recognition software and then a team following this up in real time as customers pass around the floor. We have around one thousand cameras connected to twenty five screens, all tracking real time footage of what’s going on. Today I’m using it to a very different advantage. Jack is in the casino, poised for action.
My frustration now is two-fold. I can’t allow my staff to know why I’ve adopted a sudden interest in our security office. I can’t risk them finding out, I don’t know who to trust so I’ve developed a cover story of general monitoring to asses whether any upgrades are needed. I accept it’s a tad weak, but this is where I pull the boss card. At least they’re not inclined to ask too many difficult questions, just answer mine.
My second issue is that I can only catch fleeting glances of Jack and his progress before the cameras flash to another perspective. We don’t need to track one hundred percent of activity in real time as the real work is done after the losses come crashing in. Then we study footage. So, although I’ve directed Jack to stand in a specific place, I can’t see what he’s doing without interruption.
I can override the set up and divert the monitor from the other areas physically, but because I can’t allow my team to know what I’m up to, I need to be seen to be no more than a casual observer.
So far, my trip has been enlightening, so it’s not a total lie.
Jack isn’t playing the tables yet, he’s just observing. We have no idea whether the two guys he heard spouting off will turn up, but they’re regulars apparently so we can, but hope. It’s already later than Jack thought they may arrive, so I’m just starting to wonder whether they may have decided against the casino tonight, when they rock up.
My fingers curl around the pen I’m holding, I can feel their necks snapping in my palm. I want to smash the screen with my balled fist causing them pain that will never reach the levels they inflict on innocent children. And for creating a situation for me that wouldn’t exist if their behaviour ceased, but that’s secondary.
When the monitor flashes back to them, Jack is waving. They move to stand next to him. Well done Jack! The three chat silently on the screen, nodding their heads at the cards, no doubt conversing about hands. One gesticulates to join in. The other smiles as Jessica our croupier offers him inclusion in the round.
The screen flips over to a close up of Jessica’s hands as she’s dealing and then displays the group as they select their chips. The controller uses the lever to zoom in. I tap my foot, my head may explode if we don’t see what’s going on with Jack again soon. This pattern continues for two hours as our operator makes sure there’s no fraudulent dealing passing between croupier and customers. I mill around the room, timing my return to this end when the image displays Jack and his new friends.
Until the camera flips back, and their seats are empty. They’ve left the table. My eyes fly wide, scanning all the monitors at once. My brain is screaming to find them, randomising my search. I take a breath, stand in the middle of the bank of desks and start at the left. Working my way slowly across the silent movies, I halt.
They’re in the book area, a less salubrious section which takes wagers on sporting events. It’s out of the way, down a side corridor. They’re engaged in conversation, but I can’t see with whom, but they know the location of the cameras, they’re turned away. Jack is nodding, handing over a wad of cash, smiling and shaking hands.
I want to dash right on down there; discover the identity of this hidden form myself. But, by the time I get there, they’ll have moved on anyway. It looks like they’re winding things up already. Plus, that’s not going to help the matter of my inconspicuousness.
I listen to this internal dialogue, rationalise with myself that I’m doing all I can whilst watching more jollity until Jack follows a skinny male along a side corridor. The cameras lose them but the bleepers flash a red alert that the sensor has been broken twice. Two people have left.
That rear view of Jack’s accomplice, the one which was so effectively placed towards the CCTV is niggling me. I can’t place it. The mystery figure isn’t wearing our casino uniform, but they have a pass. I stroll around the room ensuring I feign nonchalance in front of my staff, whilst following the trail of footage as the pair move around the maze that is the back of house.
I could ask Bill my head of security to identify the pass being used, or Jason my head of IT, but to do either would raise awareness that I know more than I should. I can’t risk drawing attention to my investigation. Not only would it jeopardise Jack’s safety, but my own would also be compromised. The figure is male, he’s stocky with matching legs and thick set arms. He has short sandy hair with a patch which I expect would surprise and hopefully upset him if he were standing viewing his activity from my perspective.
I position myself in front of the monitor which I know covers the entrance to my offices. Then, I wait. This one has a different angle, so perhaps I’ll see the front of the guy. The clacking of the keys as the operators transition from one image to the next near on drives me crazy. Their chatter a constant hum reminding me that no-one can be trusted.
The entourage should have appeared in shot by now, but the camera remains blank. The only other place they could have diverted to is the casino’s service area, out of the fire escape, by the bins.
The rubbish area is not the glossy side of my casino business. This used to be where the knees were bent in the old days when bills were left unpaid. Nowadays, we have to pursue debts through the official channels. I know some that don’t, but they’re the private clubs on the back alleys, those that no-one officially knows exist. With our gleaming West End frontage, we can’t afford to be unscrupulous. Nowadays, our bin area is only for our waste. Or so I thought.
‘Why is that screen blank?’ I ask.
Tom, one of our controllers answers. ‘It’s been out of action for months now.’ He says it with one of those non-committal not-my-problem shrugs. I’ve no doubt that he’s happy with less to keep an eye on than he should. I make a note on a mental post it and stick it in my virtual ‘to do’ list.
‘Is that normal, for cameras to be broken for long periods before they’re fixed?’ I ask.
‘It can be. Not always.’
Not helpful at all. Rage builds again, like water currents. And again, I resist the urge to shake him, and instead, walk away. As I near the exit, I throw over my shoulder, ‘Who did you report this to, Tom?’
I’m already half way out of the door when his reply comes, ‘Bill.’
Lucy
I tune in as Jack gets to know his targets. Over the course of an hour or so, he listens in, as they each brag. He enquires only when the time is right about where to find the girls, ‘Not women, girls,’ he stresses.
One of the sleazebags, the one who seems to be trying a bit too hard to keep up with his mate, suggests putting Jack in touch with his contact. Apparently virgins are coming out of his ears, ‘but you can’t be too fussy about the kids being English.’
Jack guffaws as expected in these circumstances. ‘Fresh pussy is the same whatever their background,’ he says. I imagine him spitting the words out, his skin crawling at the transaction so easily found that will kill another small piece of a young life.
I shut the idea out and concentrate on what’s happening. There’s a click of what sounds like a door over the radio.
‘I’m not getting in a car with you,’ Jack’s disembodied voice says.
‘What do you think? That you’ll get your girl in the back alley of a casino?’
‘Well, I assumed you’d bring her to me in the casino and then I can go where I choose?’ Jack says.
‘Well, you assumed wrong, get in.’
There’s a pause and I imagine Jack is weighing up his limited options. ‘OK, I’ll come with you, although this Mercedes is not the type of transport I’m used to. I’d prefer something a little more exclusive than a common old black AMG.’
‘Start the engine, Mo.’ Mo has already twisted the key and p
ressed the gas before the blaring instruction is out of Steve’s mouth. A few moments later, Adam’s Mercedes pulls out of the alley.
I smell rubber rather than hear the tyres screech as Mo pushes our heavy surveillance van through the London traffic.
‘Where are they going? Have they sussed him out?’ I ask.
‘Depends,’ Steve says. ‘They could just be taking him to the girls, but they may have worked out that he’s asking too many questions. We’ll follow, see where they end up.’
Fear churns my stomach, swirling my guts with torturous cramps. Panic engulfs my conscience, all other thoughts pushed aside. How could another friend potentially be facing kidnapping? Unlike with Paula, though, I’m calm. I’m ice cold, focused on the replica car ahead of us. I will not let the worst happen again.
We pull up outside a posh, regency hotel with pillars at the sandstone windows and larger ones flanking the impressive arced entrance. A butler rubs his gloved hands. He smiles when Jack alights the car and tips his top hat.
‘Pleased to meet you. I’m Jack Mortimer, I’m with some friends this evening. I’d be grateful if you could point us in the right direction for a table, please.’
Before the concierge can agree, Jack’s friends step around, ‘That won’t be necessary, thank you.’
‘He’s clever, he’s making sure that he’s recognised if we need to search for him,’ Steve says.
At the same time, Jack is turning towards his captor, ‘Oh, where are we meeting, then?’
‘We have a suite.’
Jack nods. ‘Oh, don’t worry, we have a suite.’ He repeats to the doorman, smiling before entering the hotel.
‘I’m going after him, they won’t notice me. You lot look too much like police.’ I’m out of the door and running across the busy London road without a second glance. A supermarket delivery van swerves to avoid me. The red haired and red-faced driver bellows abuse at me through his cab window, open to allow cigarette smoke to escape. I dismiss his profanities, concentrating on the butler. As I pass him, I smile, wave a ‘hi’ and say, ‘I’m meeting my friend - he just arrived.’