by Chris Thomas
‘I’m getting to that,’ replied Stan, impatiently and a little irritated. ‘Once you’ve made contact with him, don’t have a drink, just tell him that you’re desperate to get into his pants or whatever it is you lot say. Then we need you to tell him that you have a flat just around the corner, which is that one over there, number three, got it?’
‘Fine. Do I actually have to fuck him?’
‘No, once you’re in and he’s got his kit off, we’ll do the rest. There’s a grand in cash for you now and another grand once we’re done.’
The boy held his hand out for the cash. Stan pulled a folded up wedge of twenty pound notes out of his shirt pocket and placed it in the boy’s hand. Just as the boy grasped his fingers around the money, Stan quickly grabbed his wrist as the boy fought to snatch it away.
‘Ow, let go of me, you arsehole,’ the boy protested, as Stan leaned in.
‘Be clear,’ Stan said in a stern, calm manner. ‘If you so much as spill a word about this to anyone, we will find you and we will make you wish you had never been born. OK?’
‘Alright, sweetie, calm down,’ said the boy, rubbing his wrist as Stan let go.
The boy climbed out of the back of the van and shut the doors behind him. Stan returned to the passenger seat just as Eric hung up a phone call.
‘I sent a couple of the goons into the pub in advance,’ said Eric. ‘I’ve been in that pub before. It’s not really a place for a nancy boy like him. It’s all hairy arms, shaved heads and neck tattoos. And that’s just the women.’
They moved the van to a small alley near the block of flats and reversed next to the gate that joined on to the ground floor apartment’s garden. The two men left the van and entered the flat, where two waiting goons already sat, playing cards at a table. They were going around the flat, closing all the curtains, making it look a little lived-in, when the walkie-talkie on the kitchen table crackled. Eric picked it up and mumbled a few affirmative grunts.
‘Target is on its way. Everyone take their positions. Remember, this guy is bigger than Rankin and even more of a nasty shit, so we need to be clinical and efficient.’
The other men all nodded in agreement before concealing themselves in various hiding places around the flat and turning off all the lights.
A few minutes later, the door crashed open as McAllister burst into the room. He turned on the light and tossed the boy down onto the floor.
‘Get your fucking clothes off now, you little pussy. And get on the sofa,’ he shouted.
The boy was used to being treated roughly, but even he looked somewhat stunned at the strength and aggression of this man. He looked back at McAllister undoing his belt and trousers as he struggled to peel his own tight clothes off. A semi-naked and somewhat impatient McAllister then grabbed the boy off the floor and pinned him face-down on the sofa. He grabbed the boy’s jeans and yanked them down past his ankles, ignoring the muffled sounds of pain coming from the cushion, and positioned himself directly behind his buttocks.
Just as he was about to start taking what he wanted, he felt a tap on his shoulder. Letting go of the boy, he turned round to see four men in balaclavas stood two feet away. The shock froze him to the spot, giving the boy enough time to make his escape, grabbing his clothes from the floor as he ran behind a kitchen worktop.
‘Evening, Cramer,’ said one of the men. ‘Is that a gun in your pocket or are you just pleased to see us?’
As McAllister looked down at his now flaccid manhood, he all of a sudden felt two sharp stabs in his torso, followed by a hissing crackle as thousands of volts shot into his body. His arms flailed as he tried to fight it, but he quickly lost control of his limbs and slumped to the floor.
‘You’re going to pay for this, you fuckers,’ he shouted defiantly from the floor, as two of the goons pinned his arms to his back.
‘That’s a good point, actually,’ replied Eric, as he tossed another wedge of notes at the boy, who was now practically fully clothed. ‘Thanks for reminding me. Go on, get out of here.’
The boy didn’t need a second invitation and ran out of the flat.
‘Don’t you fucking know who I am?’ Cramer continued. ‘I’ll have the lot of you fucking killed.’
‘Of course we know who you are, Cramer, that’s why we’re here,’ said Eric, calmly, kneeling down to talk closer. ‘You are our very special guest. And we are going to see to it that you get our extra special treatment for being such a valuable member of the human race.’
‘Fuck you,’ he spat.
‘Indeed,’ replied Eric, as he removed a small syringe from his pocket. He held it in front of McAllister’s face and flicked the glass side. McAllister’s eyes darted backwards and forwards as he fought against his assailants. ‘Time for night-night.’
As the tranquiliser took effect, McAllister’s eyes eventually closed and his body went limp.
Stan took out his mobile and dialled. ‘We’ve got him,’ he said.
‘Excellent work, gentlemen,’ said the voice on the other end. ‘Get him back here; he’s got a very important job to do.’
27
Daisy lay in her room at the bed and breakfast, staring up at the ceiling. It had been nearly two weeks now since she’d escaped the clutches of Saeed and Aleksander. This place was hardly the Ritz; it was damp, it smelled, and the less said about the other guests the better. Between the half-way house residents fresh out of prison and the emergency housing association benefit cheats that turned up in the middle of the night, she practically felt like royalty. But that didn’t stop her almost sleeping with one eye open every night. Throw in one of the most lecherous, overweight slobs of a landlord she had ever seen, and it made the little caravan in the woods seem like a five star hotel.
But it was cheap, and it had meant that the money she stole from Aleksander could stretch further. She was able to buy proper food and medicines to help her body heal. Most of all, its cheapness allowed her to buy clean clothes. No longer did she feel like a child of the gutter, a piece of filth that people would sooner wipe off their shoe than help.
She had even visited the local swimming pool. For most children, going swimming was a fairly unremarkable occurrence, but it was a pastime notably absent from her younger years. She had learned to swim once but she couldn’t recall when. But now, it was helping her; once she had learnt to ignore the stares from other bathers when they saw the bruises, scratches, and scars over her arms and legs, that is. Apart from helping her grow fitter and stronger, it also helped clear her mind. The abuse that she’d suffered, the violations at the hands of filthy, repulsive men who would make normal people want to puke; no longer did she feel the need to try and suppress the anger. She could channel it through exercise, focus her aggression into something positive. And she loved the effects. Even after a few days, she no longer felt weak and pointless. More importantly, she had slowly begun to stop hating herself.
She was roused from her daze by a thump on the door. Turning to look, she decided she was too comfortable, rolled her head back, and closed her eyes.
The thump came again, twice this time, and a little bit harder.
‘Oi, Daisy,’ came the shout from the hallway. ‘It’s Kev, let us in.’
‘For god’s sake,’ Daisy whispered to herself, before shouting, ‘piss off, I’m trying to have a sleep.’
‘Go on, I need to talk to you,’ he replied.
Kev was one of the pointless benefit cheats, put up in the hostel because he had three children, a girlfriend, and nowhere to live. From the way he talked, she could tell he was barely educated, a jobless wonder who did nothing all day but could somehow afford cigarettes and strong cider. She waited for a moment in the hope that he would just go away, but there was another thump at the door. Cursing to herself, she rolled off the bed and opened the door. It had only just slipped the catch when Kev pushed it open and barged past into her room.
‘Fucking hell, Kev. What do you think you’re doing?’ she asked, angrily.
‘Alright darling, calm down,’ he replied, walking around her room, picking various objects up, looking at them, and then putting them down again. ‘I thought we could get to know each other a bit better.’
‘No thanks, you’re fine,’ she replied, holding the door open and motioning for him to leave.
‘Kev?’ came a shout from down the hallway.
‘In here, mate. Don’t mind if Wesley comes in as well, do you?’ he asked, as the second man entered the room before Daisy had any chance to object. They looked identical. Black trainers, grey over-baggy sweat pants that sagged well below their waists, topped off with a basketball shirt and endless amounts of cheap gold jewellery. And, still, in their mid-twenties, they were yet to shake off two facefuls of bright red acne.
Daisy sighed and looked at the two men as they shook hands in some overly flamboyant manner involving lots of slapping of hands, twirling of fingers, finished with a fist bump. She couldn’t contain a loud snigger.
‘What are you to two supposed to be, Bloods or Crips?’
‘What did you say, bitch?’ said Wesley, in his best West Coast gangster voice, forming a gun shape with his first two fingers and thumb extended, as he walked towards her. He aimed it sideways at Daisy’s face, making a gunshot sound, and smirking arrogantly until he felt the hand on his pectoral pulling him back.
‘It’s cool, bro. She’s just messing. Sit down and have a smoke.’
‘Do you have to do that here?’ asked Daisy, as Wesley sat down and pulled a long, cone-shaped joint from his tracksuit pocket.
‘Come on, baby, chill out,’ said Kev, swaggering towards her with his arms out wide, crotch thrust forward.
Daisy put her hands up in front of her face in an attempt to make him keep his distance.
‘You do know that wearing pants halfway down your leg like that started in prisons as a sign that the wearer was bent and asking to be fucked up the arse?’
Wesley stood up and walked over to them. ‘This little whore needs to be learnt some fucking respect.’
Kev reached over her shoulder and pushed the door closed. ‘You wanna watch what you say. We bust little pussies like you all the time.’
‘Of course you do,’ replied Daisy, trying her best to act nonchalant, but inwardly her heart was beating twenty to the dozen. ‘Because you’re some sort of gangster pimp, right? Not the pointless council estate scratter that you look li–’ Daisy let out a scream as Wesley grabbed the back of her hair and pulled her head. He threw her down towards the bed.
‘You fucking what?’ he said, arms pumped outward in an attempted display of masculine dominance. ‘I’m gonna fucking do you.’
He grabbed her arms and pinned them down above her head on the pillow. She struggled, but his weight was too much.
‘Grab her trousers,’ he shouted to Kev, who, despite a slight reluctance, did what he was told.
Kev started to grab at her belt and undo her button fly, all five popping open at once as her legs thrashed around. He took a strong grip on the belt hooks and pulled. But the jeans were on too tightly and his grasp slipped, causing him to fall back against the wall. Daisy looked up to see him stumble and, before he could regain his balance, she brought her leg back and thrust her foot as forcefully as she could against his head. Catching him straight on the jaw, she smashed his head hard against the concrete wall, knocking him out cold.
Wesley let go of one of her arms and brought his fist up. He punched as hard as he could. Daisy felt the air as his hand brushed past the side of her head and was swallowed by the pillow. Again, he went to strike. She waved her free hand around and moved her head out of the way as the fist landed once more. His aggressive grunts became louder, and he straddled her on the bed, hoping to land a decisive blow.
As he raised his arm one final time, Daisy looked up at him, wide-eyed. The flashbacks began. Of the house, of the abuse, of the other weak pathetic men in the same position. They shot through Daisy’s mind. One after another after another, each one making the hatred swell within her. After a split second that seemed like much longer, her breathing calmed and she lifted her leg up as forcibly as she could, straight into Wesley’s crotch. Before he could move, she did it again. He screamed a high-pitched scream and rolled off the bed onto the floor.
Daisy jumped off the bed, planting kick after kick between his legs as he writhed around on the carpet, groaning in agony.
‘You … fucking … little … bastard!’ she screamed, between each kick.
Kev had come to slightly and reached out to grab her leg. She pulled away and ran for the door, slamming it behind her as she ran out into the hallway.
As she ran past the front desk, the landlord shouted out for her to stop, but she ignored him and carried on into the street. She started running, anywhere away from the hostel. There was no way she’d be able to go back in there now.
Eventually, she arrived at the same industrial park she had seen at the edge of the woods. Slowing to a walk, she attempted to appear to any passers-by like a jogger taking a rest as she glanced over her shoulders, trying to take in her environment. Stopping at a bench, she patted her back pocket.
‘Shit,’ she whispered. ‘Shit, shit, shit. No.’ The stash of money. She had left it under the mattress in the hostel room.
Darkness was beginning to draw in. The bright headlights of the cars leaving for the day formed spiky stars through the tears that had started to well in her eyes as they drove past.
Rubbing her eyes, she tried to collect her thoughts. She had been in this position before, but now found herself back in it a little quicker than she had anticipated. From the brief exploring carried out the last time she was here, she remembered the covered pallet store in the yard of one of the warehouses. For now, that would have to do.
Shinning over the green metal gate and landing with a thud on the concrete, she ran across the yard. Luckily, it was neither dark enough to set off the security, nor was the store locked. So she sat down in her new home for the night and tried to think. What was her next move? But at least, for now, she was safe.
28
Harris stood at the front of the briefing room, next to a flip chart, in front of the whiteboard, brandishing a black jumbo marker pen. In front of him, variously sat on chairs or on the tables, were Brooks, Fowler and Smith, plus an assortment of other officers from both the unit and other sections. Among the black lines joining ovals and rectangles that adorned the wall were written clues to the case. ‘The Red Room’, ‘The Brotherhood of the Righteous’, ‘Karen Parker’. A vague picture was starting to emerge, but they were all waiting for the big one. The next episode.
It was Harris’ job to educate the assembled officers on what they knew.
‘What we have so far is some sort of show that takes place somewhere on the deep web,’ started Harris, before being cutting off immediately by the first question.
‘The deep web? So it could be anywhere in the world then,’ asked an officer.
‘Quite right,’ replied Harris, patiently. ‘Although, if you’d read the brief you would remember that the three people whose disappearances we can link to the show all live in the U.K. This means that we can be reasonably certain that this show is also filmed somewhere in this country.’
Brooks and Fowler turned and rolled their eyes at the stupidity of the question as the officer who asked it slunk into his chair, blushing with embarrassment.
‘Anyway,’ continued Harris, ‘from what we can gather, the group running this go by the pretty sanctimonious name of the ‘Brotherhood of the Righteous’. The footage that was emailed into CCU appears to show the group killing convicted paedophile Gary Sweetman by slitting his throat. So it doesn’t take a huge leap of imagination to assume that this group abducts these people and then broadcasts the videos of the murders online. And they’re clearly very professional. Apart from the production values in the video, they left absolutely nothing to go on with the respective MISPER investigations. They have access
to advanced technologies, namely the ability to clone the surveillance tag that Karen Parker was wearing.’
‘So, do we know anything about them?’ asked Smith.
‘Nothing concrete, just assumptions. They must have access to serious resources, funding, and so on. And they must have experience in covert-style operations, given their seeming ability to move around without being seen anywhere.’
‘Can we be absolutely certain that they’re the ones responsible for the disappearances of Parker and Rankin though?’ asked another officer.
‘We’re ninety-nine percent sure, yes. Fowler?’ He motioned to Fowler to come up to the front.
Fowler stood up with his laptop and plugged it in to the USB connector of the smartboard, transforming the big whiteboard into a huge PC monitor. A cacophony of sniggers broke out in the room as Fowler’s enormous Batman symbol desktop appeared up on the wall.
‘You lot are only jealous that you haven’t got one,’ he started. ‘Anyway, thanks to our trawling through the depths of sub-internet webspace, we stumbled across this.’
He clicked on the JPEG file to display what appeared to be a photo of the Red Room entry screen. It appeared to have been taken on a mobile phone. A large white patch where the flash had reflected on the screen obscured part of the Red Room sign, but the words were still visible.
‘We don’t know who uploaded this file, but it is date stamped for last Friday. Clearly, Parker and Rankin are referenced as that evening’s “special guests”. But it’s just a picture, the web address at the top of the screen has since been removed. It’s either the mother of all coincidences or—’
Just then, Harris’ phone, which had been sitting on the table in front of him, lit up and vibrated across the surface, nearly sending it off and onto the floor. He grabbed it and opened it to the home screen. There was a message flashing up on his mobile TOR app.
‘Do you need to get that?’ asked Fowler, as Harris’ attention to the room dropped briefly. ‘Harris?’
‘Sorry,’ replied Harris, still scanning his phone. ‘It’s a message telling me to check the Enter The Dark forum. I’m assuming the next episode has been put on there.’