by Tony Black
‘Mr Crawley?’ he said.
A wide-eyed stare greeted him. ‘Yes.’
Henderson had the Stanley blade out of his pocket as he jumped into the front seat. He took the blade, forced its edge into Crawley’s line of vision – made sure he had a good look at it – then rested it on the pink flesh of his neck. ‘We’re going for a wee drive, Mr Crawley.’
The teacher’s face lost all its colour, his thin lips began to tremble. Henderson noticed he did indeed sweat a lot, a line of perspiration rolled towards the Stanley blade.
‘W-what?’ he said.
‘You fucking heard …’ Henderson drew back his fist, put the butt of the knife into the cheekbone. Crawley yelped in pain and dropped his head towards the wheel. ‘Now get fucking moving before I take your throat out with this.’ Henderson shook the blade before the teacher’s face.
Crawley settled his hands on the wheel, engaged the clutch.
Chapter 29
NEIL HENDERSON KEPT the Stanley knife tight in his hand as Crawley drove out of the school gates. His palm grew sticky around the warm piece of metal, he felt his fingers ache. There was a passing moment when he wondered if he had done the right thing, or if he had made a mistake that was going to deliver him straight back to the prison he had just left. The thoughts goaded him, raced around inside his head so fast that he started to feel a dull ache in the back of his skull. What choice did he have? he asked himself. He couldn’t rely on Angela to come up with enough money to keep Boaby Stevens quiet, for even a little while, and he had no other prospects. Henderson felt forced into his actions, driven by circumstance: he had to free himself of Shaky; maybe after that he could think about what he was going to do with his life. Right now it wasn’t an option – he almost laughed at the thought of backing out. Options like that were for other people, the square pegs; folk like teachers. Though not Crawley, he had no options left.
Henderson gripped the knife even tighter, but his whole hand stiffened; he shifted the blade into his other hand and stretched out his fingers on the stiff one. As they pulled into the traffic, he caught sight of Crawley moving his eyes towards him. He didn’t like Crawley looking at him, he didn’t like Crawley full stop; he had a face like a rat, pointy; just like Angela said. ‘You just keep watching the fucking road,’ he roared, smacked the Stanley blade off the dash; the noise made the teacher flinch.
‘Y-You’ll never get away with it.’
Had Crawley grown bolder? wondered Henderson. Had he started to puff himself up now that they had driven further from the school? He hadn’t quite reached cockiness yet but Henderson wondered if he was already being too soft on him. Should he sound more threatening? Should he carve him a little? Maybe just a nick on his cheekbone to shut him up? The trouble was, he had never been in this situation before; it was new territory. Henderson knew exactly what to expect when it came to noising up scrotes on the inside, or tarts down the Links, but real people were a different matter. He didn’t know how to handle them. He toyed again with the idea of marking him, raised the blade to his face a few times but withdrew it. That was going too far, at this stage. He wanted to mark him, wanted to do worse; he steadied himself, calmed it down. He told himself there was no need to be anxious; after all, this was not a real person – he just looked that way. Crawley was a beast, and everybody understood what that meant. Beasts got what they deserved in the end and he was the man that was making sure Crawley got his.
The Stanley blade was for the end of the line though, thought Henderson. If Crawley got carried away, if he got out of order, he would get the knife right away – no question. But Henderson knew he needed to wield the threat of it right now to keep him in his place. He said, ‘Never get away with it … Should be me that’s saying that to you.’
Crawley’s arms looked locked, frozen to the wheel. His hands were tight clamps, his knuckles white. He stuttered, ‘I-I don’t understand … Look, why are you doing this? It’s kidnapping, you know that.’
Henderson watched the teacher’s nervous eyes dart towards him, he forced the butt of the blade into his face – pushed his gaze front. ‘Keep watching the fucking road … I know where you live and if I see you taking me the wrong way I’ll put this knife in you. Do you understand?’
There was a pause as Crawley gathered his breath, tried to adjust his tone. ‘Y-yes. I understand.’
‘Good, then do as you’re fucking told.’ Henderson lowered the Stanley knife, pressed it against Crawley’s shoulder. He had him under control now, he could see that. He felt his pulse begin to calm, his own breathing seemed less strained. He spoke softly, stretching out the intonation of his words, allowing a maniacal cadence to seep in. ‘What you don’t understand though, is that I know all about you … Mr Crawley.’
The teacher’s cheeks flushed, he was sweating, his thin hair sticking to his brow as Angela had described it. He looked like words queued on his lips but he held his mouth closed, kept his thoughts to himself.
Henderson continued his baiting of him, ‘Oh aye, I know all about you … And your type. See, there was plenty of your type in the jail; know what we called them?’
Crawley didn’t answer, kept staring at the road ahead. Two hollows appeared either side of his mouth as he frowned. His lips looked pale and thin as he ran a dry grey tongue over them.
‘We called them beasts!’ said Henderson. He let the sound of the word fill the car, it seemed to echo all around them. He liked the effect, so he said it again, ‘Beasts! That’s what we call guys like you, folk that go after wee lassies … You like the wee lassies, don’t you, beast?’
Crawley’s lower jaw started to jut, trembled momentarily. He blinked quickly as he tried to regain the power of speech. ‘Y-you’ve made a mistake. You have me mixed up with someone else …’ He turned to face Henderson, his eyes pleading. ‘This is a mistaken identity.’
Henderson laughed; he dropped his head towards his chest and then, as his laughter increased in tone and pitch, he broke into a coughing fit. He lowered the blade for a second, casually shifted it back to his other hand and then coughed over his knuckles. ‘That’s a fucking good one … No, it is, a right good one.’ The laughter halted, Henderson forced the Stanley blade hard into Crawley’s crotch. ‘After what you’ve been up to I should just hack the balls off you … Maybe I will.’
Crawley’s voice was a wail. ‘I haven’t done anything … I haven’t … I …’
Henderson gripped the blade tighter, dug it deeper into Crawley’s crotch. ‘Do I look stupid to you? Do I? Do I look like a fucking halfwit, a mug? Someone who’s likely to get something like this wrong? I checked my facts, pal … Well and truly. And I know who you are and what you’ve done. And you’re going to pay for it. Fucking sure you are.’
Crawley raised a hand from the wheel, it trembled as he wiped at his dry mouth. He replaced the hand quickly; his jaw drooped, made a sharp angle with his neck and chest. He looked uncomfortable, too hunched up to drive. His eyes narrowed, grew redder. The hollows in his cheeks deepened, became two dark declivities mimicking the outline of his eye sockets. He seemed to be disintegrating before Henderson.
He spoke, the words rasping in his throat. ‘W-we’re here … This is my home.’
It was a neat semi-detached property that looked to have been newly renovated. The front walls had been rendered and double-glazing had been added. The garden was small, a driveway sat to one side, skirted by a small white pebble-dashed wall. As Henderson looked at the house it reminded him of the homes he had seen on television, on sit-coms and soap operas. It was a home where everyday folk lived, normal people; not beasts.
‘Pull into the drive,’ he said.
Crawley worked down through the gears, pressed the brake pedal. When the car was stationary in the street he selected first gear and slowly rolled the vehicle towards the driveway, turning the steering wheel tightly. When the car came to rest he switched off the engine and sat staring ahead.
Henderson still had the bl
ade dug into the teacher’s crotch. He twisted it as he spoke, ‘Now, here’s what we’re going to do … You’re going to get out that door there and walk towards the house. You’re going to open the door and we’re going to walk inside. If you make any funny moves, if you make any fuss, if you even think about legging it, then it will be the worse for you.’
Crawley moved his head to face him, ‘Why? What will you do?’ he said.
Henderson released a wide smile; it stretched half way up his face, tightening the lines around his eyes and creasing his forehead. ‘Well, right now, I’ll carve you a nice wee red necklace, you can rest assured of that. But I don’t think that’s your main worry.’ He looked out the car’s windscreen towards the house. ‘No, I’d be concerned about keeping my place in Happy Valley if I was you … Not many around here, or at the school, would be chuffed to know you were a beast, would they, Crawley?’
The teacher slumped forward on the steering wheel, his head rested on the rim. A slow breath exited from his mouth and then he spoke, ‘I keep telling you … You have the wrong man.’
Henderson removed the blade, slammed it hard into Crawley’s thighbone. His tone rose higher, filled with aggression. ‘Look, I’ve told you, I know who you are … You know how? Because I know someone you know.’ He brought his face closer to Crawley’s, pressed his jaw out. His speech came on a flight of spittle, ‘Did you think your wee trip out to the countryside, out to the field by Straiton, went without notice …’
Crawley jerked his head from the wheel, turned to face Henderson. His mouth was wide, his reddened eyes struggling to find their focus. ‘What?’
Henderson bit, ‘Oh that struck a chord, eh … Fucking bet it did.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘Oh aye, did you just forget about … Angela Mickle?’
Silence.
The name sat between them in the confined space like a small explosion. Crawley’s damp eyes widened and his teeth clattered as he drew his mouth closed. Henderson could tell he had him now, he could do what he wanted; it was like throttling someone and then withdrawing at the last moment. The moment before you choked the life out of them: at that point they were weak, almost too weak to carry on. The teacher sat limp in the driver’s seat as Henderson reached across him, grabbed the handle, and forced open the door. ‘Right, get out … You and me have got some stuff to talk about in the house.’
Chapter 30
NEIL HENDERSON KNEW exactly what he wanted to do with Crawley – he wanted to kill him – but that wasn’t going to work to his advantage at this moment. As he looked at Crawley, backing away, his hands groping behind him as he bumped into the tile-topped coffee table in the centre of the floor, he wondered how a man like him had ever managed to instil fear in anyone. But he knew he had. Henderson remembered the exact lines Angela had written in her diary. He remembered how she had looked at the merest mention of the teacher’s name, the terror on her face. And she had been panicked, thrown into shock by the television news when the story about the girl they found in the field near Straiton came on. Crawley had done that – this weak, scared man who stood before him with his hands shaking and his brow wet with sweat.
Henderson gripped the Stanley blade tighter in his hand and walked towards Crawley. He had abducted him from a school playground; he thought about that for a moment, it seemed almost like fate. Like the tables being turned. This is what Crawley had done to those girls; he had captured them, taken them prisoner. But he hadn’t taken them home, or anywhere familiar. He had driven those girls into the countryside, into the dark of night. He had taken them to a place where no one would see them, where no one would hear their cries, their screams. Henderson felt moisture pooling in his hand; he shifted the blade. He remembered the time his mother’s boyfriend had taken him somewhere out of sight, what he had done to him there. He remembered the pain, the agony of it. For a moment, Henderson wasn’t there in the room with Crawley, he wasn’t himself; he was the young boy who had been taken up those stairs, watched as the door closed behind him and then cried when the door opened again and he realised the shame he would have to carry around for the rest of his life.
‘You fucking bastard,’ said Henderson.
Crawley turned away, looked towards the back of the room. There was nothing there, only the window and the curtains, a standing lamp and a small bookcase. There was no one to save him, there was no weapon he could reach for, there was nowhere to hide or to run to. He turned back towards his captor, his face draining white for a moment. His eyes roved, left to right. He jerked, his arms flew up in a spasm towards the side of his head and then he gripped his limp hair in his hands.
‘Thinking about bolting are you?’ said Henderson; he edged forward again, closed down the space between them. ‘Not much fucking chance of that, I’d have the throat out you before you got a yard.’ He started to laugh, watched as Crawley closed his eyes tightly; he looked like a child pretending that nothing would happen if he couldn’t see it.
‘What do you want from me?’ he wailed.
Henderson locked down his prisoner; he could almost smell the fear in the room. He sensed Crawley’s energy attenuating, seeping out of him, as he reached forward and placed the haft of the blade on the sleeve of his jacket. The movement made him tense, his shoulders squared. ‘Is that what they said to you … Those girls?’
Crawley raised a hand, wiped at his eyebrows with the tips of his long fingers; some drops of sweat glistened there. ‘What girls? … I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.’
Henderson sparked, ‘Don’t fuck me about, you know what I mean.’ He reached out, grabbed Crawley by the collar. His hot neck brushed against Henderson’s knuckles as he pulled him towards the blade, forced it to the edge of his jaw. ‘The girls you took out to the field, the ones like … Angela.’ He said the name slowly, savoured each syllable, made sure Crawley would have no doubt about the word he uttered.
‘Who?’ said Crawley.
Henderson raised the butt of the blade again, pressed it into the fleshy part of his jaw line; a thin trickle of blood smeared the tip of the blade and then ran down Crawley’s neckline. ‘Don’t fucking mess me about, you know fine well who she is … You took her out to the field and tied her up but she got away.’
‘No. No. No.’
‘Yes! Fucking yes. And she’s been walking the Links since she got away, from you, Crawley … She got away when she hit you with a fucking rock.’ Henderson brought the haft down on Crawley’s head; there was a dull thud and then the teacher called out in pain. His knees seemed to fold, one at a time and then he slumped to the floor in a slow, swooning fall. He writhed like a maggot in a bait-bucket, his arms flailing before him as he tried to renegotiate his place in this strange new world. His balance had deserted him, he patted at the carpet with his large ungainly hands and groaned audibly.
Henderson leaned over, grabbed Crawley’s hair, dragged him towards the middle of the room. He was still dazed, still fumbling, as Henderson produced the nylon rope from the inside of his jacket and started to tie him, first round the ankles and then, after pushing the arms behind his back, the wrists. Blood smeared on the carpet from the nick on Crawley’s jaw which had opened wider, and from the fresh wound on his head. His eyes rolled about and his limbs fell limp. He mumbled, tried to speak, but words wouldn’t come. When he opened his mouth to grab mouthfuls of air, Henderson noticed the blood on his teeth.
‘You know all about getting folk tied up, don’t you …’ said Henderson. He yanked on the rope, saw it burning into Crawley’s skin; he tightened it even more, said, ‘I say you know all about tying up folk, eh.’
Crawley groaned, a broad rivulet of blood traced the shape of his forehead from hairline to brow. His head lolled on his shoulders and his facial muscles sagged and drooped. He looked dazed, his eyes glassy and moist.
Henderson prodded him, ‘Wee lassies, you know about tying them up, don’t you.’
Crawley
started to mumble again, his words came coated with spittle. Some blood escaped the corner of his mouth as he spoke, ‘I don’t know anything. I-I don’t …’
‘Just keep that up,’ Henderson yelled. ‘See where it fucking gets you, pal.’ He stepped back, dropped the trailing rope at his feet and raised his hands. ‘Are you fucking daft or what? … Can you not tell when you’re digging a hole for yourself?’ Henderson steadied himself before the teacher; he shook his head as he took in his gaze. He settled before him, let the mash of his thoughts subside and then he lowered his hand to the floor and pulled the rope tight. He tested the tension, looked at his work; he seemed content that the knots would hold and so he cut the excess rope at the teacher’s wrists. As he rose, Henderson dug inside Crawley’s jacket pocket and removed his wallet. There was a thin bundle of notes there; he seized the cash, then looked towards the bank cards.
Henderson held up the cards, waved them in Crawley’s face. ‘Right, what’s the fucking numbers for these?’
Crawley folded over, moaned. He had started to hyperventilate, gasping for breath as he lolled to and fro on the carpet. ‘I don’t know anything.’
Henderson looked away, balanced his thoughts, then placed the cards in his pocket. He took a step back from the centre of the room then made a lunging kick into Crawley’s lumber region – the teacher called out in agony, rolled to his side as Henderson stepped back. ‘I’ll ask once more, but only once more, and only because you seem to be a wee bit slow on the uptake, Mr Crawley. Now, if you tell me what I want to know … I’ll fuck off and leave you in peace – so, the numbers on these cards …’
Crawley started a coughing fit, his face darkened as he tried to raise his head off the carpet, his thin hair fell over his watery eyes. He seemed to have registered the request, said, ‘There’s only one number … The cards all have the same number … It’s two-two-four-three.’