by Shaun Baines
Daniel stepped outside, shaking the dank pub smell from his clothes. If Bronson was ever going to trust him, this was the time.
As the door scraped closed, he heard his friend from inside.
"Let's not do anything stupid," Bronson said.
Chapter Twelve
Unbelievable, Bronson thought. This was the second time Daniel had thrown him to the wolves. Staring at the grizzled bikers' faces with their matted hair and yellow eyes, Bronson loosened the collar around his throat. Like the teenagers he'd fought in the bakery, they were a pack of animals.
"Not so mouthy with your giant mate gone, are you?" Viper asked.
The bikers gathered together, shoulder to shoulder, forming a beer soaked, leather-clad wall. They swung tankards and spirit bottles in their gnarled fists.
Bronson looked to the door, imagining Daniel already halfway to Five Oaks. "Maybe, I'll wait outside."
He made to leave, but Viper forced him backward. "You owe me money."
"For the garlic bread thing?" Bronson said. "That was a joke."
"You told me the package contained Class A's. It was a five hundred pound delivery fee."
Retreating further into the room, Bronson bumped into the mechanical bull. It rocked on its piston and headbutted his shoulder, sending fresh shoots of pain through his already injured body. "The box had a picture of an Italian guy throwing pizza dough. How did you not know what was inside?"
Viper and the bikers advanced. There was nowhere for Bronson to run. If he hid in the Toilet, he'd be trapped and in danger of contracting something lethal anyway.
The bikers surrounded him, lowering their heads, ready to charge.
"Listen, I only did it because you lot are so high and mighty," Bronson said. "Why won't you work for the Daytons?"
Viper pulled out a knife, flipping it in the air. He caught it by the blade and hurled it at Bronson.
Jumping from its path, Bronson retreated to the rear end of the bull. "Right then, cowgirls," he shouted, producing his chair leg. "Let's have it."
A grinning biker ran to the wall and flicked a switch.
The bull began to spin and dip.
Tankards whizzed by Bronson's ear. One bounced off his chest, as the bull reared, knocking him into the open. A biker ran forward. Bronson shrank to the protection of the bull, keeping it between him and further attacks.
As he trailed the circling animal, another tankard flew toward him, but Bronson hit it with the chair leg, sending it back into the gang.
They honed in like predators, reaching out, clawing at his clothes.
The bull picked up speed. Bronson jogged in time with its movements. He swung the chair leg, connecting with someone's jaw. The biker fell backwards into the bar, collapsing over a stack of beer.
He swung again, missing Viper by an inch, but glad to have given him a scare.
"You can't keep this up forever," Viper said, retrieving his knife.
Bronson jogged faster. "I can try," he said.
The door of the pub burst open. Daniel rode in on a motorcycle, his face a rictus of panic. His long legs were tucked into his chest, making him look like a circus clown on a toy bike. Unable to control it, the rear wheel slid from under him. Daniel rolled free, but the bike kept skidding, hurtling toward the bull.
It collided into the piston. Smoke jetted from the bull and the gears ground in a high pitched wail.
Bronson dived out of its way, grappling with Viper as he fell.
Daniel grabbed a beer crate, throwing it like a frisbee into a cowering group of bikers. They cried out, swallowing splinters as it crashed into their heads.
The bull spun and lurched. It was out of control, knocking anyone too close to the floor. With a final crunch, the piston snapped and the bull toppled sideways. Bronson crawled over the sunken bikers, but Viper was too slow. The bull dropped on top of him and blood sprayed from his mouth.
"What is going on?"
No-one noticed the Toilet door opening. Now that Daniel had, the stench quickly followed. He gagged, wiping his mouth on a sleeve.
The Sheriff was framed in the doorway, a toilet roll wedged under her arm. She was in her forties with a row of piercings in her eyebrows. Underneath a stained pink T-shirt, her large breasts stood out as if they were laid out on a book shelf. Her biking trousers were scuffed and full of scars.
"We're here to ask you some questions," Daniel said, trying to breathe through his mouth.
Dropping the toilet roll, it bounced along the floor to Bronson's feet. He picked it up and tore off a sheet to stuff up his nose.
The Sheriff went to the bar. She poured herself a glass of red wine from a carafe. A shard of light caught the liquid. The Sheriff took a sip and placed her glass on a coaster advertising roasted peanuts. Smacking her lips, she reached under the bar and retrieved a yellow taser.
Daniel stared at it, noticing two metal stubs protruding from the device like the horns of the bull.
"There's no need for that," he said.
"You're not welcome here," she said. "Daytons are bad news."
Examining the carnage he'd created, Daniel couldn't disagree. "We'll pay for the damage."
The Sheriff aimed the prongs at his chest, her face like tempered steel. "Yes. You will."
Daniel held up his hands in surrender. "We need your help. A gang called the Motorheads are abducting kids."
The taser shook in the Sheriff's hand. "Children?"
"Teenagers," Daniel said. "Taken for ransom money. Do you know anything about it?"
A chorus of moans came from the floor. Bikers spat out teeth or nursed broken limbs. Some tried to stand, only to wobble and fall to the floor. The smoke from the smouldering bull mixed with the alchemy of a rotten toilet, coating the pub in a film of repulsion.
Viper gasped, his useless hands slapping against the floorboards.
"Don't know anything," the Sheriff said, lowering the taser.
Up close, Daniel saw her eyes were blue within a circle of black. He zoned in, watching every trip and tremor in her face. Lowered eyelids. Flared nostrils. White lips. Why did they always try to lie to him?
The Sheriff matched his gaze and her face crumpled in anger. The taser hovered at Daniel's chest, like an insect preparing to sting.
Chapter Thirteen
The flat overlooked the churning waters of the River Tyne. It was situated in a newly built high rise for young professionals. Newcastle city centre was reflected in the large windows while its noise was deflected by sound proofing.
Daniel and Bronson sat on a balcony of the fourth floor, their hands cupped around steaming mugs of tea. In the corner was a three foot tall Russian doll. Daniel had previously seen them painted as women, but this one had the face of a wolf.
Below the balcony, party people queued for the Quayside bars. Despite the cool night air, no-one wore a coat, preferring to wrap themselves in the protection of a beery haze.
Bronson gingerly checked his ribs.
"Are you okay?" Daniel asked.
"I might have been better if I'd known you were coming back," Bronson said, wincing as his fingers found a new bruise. "I'd thought you'd left me on my own again."
Daniel blew on his tea. "No-one gets left alone until we figure out what's going on here."
The patio doors behind them slid open and the Sheriff stepped onto the balcony with a man at her side.
"My husband," the Sheriff said. "Simon."
He was dressed in a three-piece suit with greying hair parted down the side. In his hands was a silver tray sporting a plate of biscuits.
"I baked these myself," Simon said. "It's a Nigella recipe."
He placed them on a table in front of Daniel and Bronson.
"Have a biscuit," the Sheriff said.
It was a command, rather than an offer and they did as they were told.
Simon watched them intently. "How are they?"
Bronson's biscuit was gone in two bites and he worked it around his mouth. "Champion," he said, s
praying crumbs over himself.
Clapping his hands, Simon turned to the Sheriff. "I told you they'd love them. Stop being such a grumpy-puss."
"Yeah, Sheriff," Bronson said, wiping his suit clean. "Stop being a grumpy-puss."
"Oh, she's terrible," Simon said. "The things I have to put up with."
"Tell me about it," Bronson said, jerking his thumb at Daniel. "This one's the same."
"Enough," Daniel and the Sheriff said in unison.
The chatter stopped immediately.
"Well, I better get back to making dinner," Simon said and turned to the Sheriff. "Play nice."
Bronson leaned in his chair. "You've bagged yourself one heck of a wife. Wherever did you find him?"
The Sheriff sat opposite, folding her arms over her massive breasts.
Daniel concentrated. Chin tucked low. Raised heartbeat. Flushed neck, but a slight smile. It was pride, Daniel thought. The Sheriff was proud of her marriage, but there was something else he couldn't quite grasp.
"Stop that," the Sheriff said, glaring at him.
He looked away, staring at the Russian doll and its piercing eyes.
"They call me the lie detector," Daniel said.
"And more besides," the Sheriff said. "You're too weak to read my thoughts."
"Is that why you won't work for the Daytons?" Bronson asked. "Because of Daniel?"
The Sheriff pulled on the heavy zip of her leather jacket, dragging it to her throat.
The streetlamps flicked on, shedding a white glow on the Tyne. The lights above the pubs flashed and Daniel turned his back to their shine. Night never came to this part of town, but Daniel sensed a darkness in the Sheriff that went beyond wanting to kill him. He couldn't read it in her face. She was too good at masking her emotions.
"Why didn't you shoot us at the Bull and Cart?" Daniel asked.
The Sheriff shifted in her chair. "My son has gone missing," she said.
Daniel and Bronson looked at each other.
"I got a note," the Sheriff continued. "Asking for money."
"Did they send anything else?" Daniel asked.
The Sheriff stood and bent over the balcony. For a second, Daniel thought she might jump.
"I paid the ransom," she said to the street below. "He never came home."
Bronson kicked out at the table, sending the biscuits and plate to the floor. The table knocked the Russian doll and it toppled, spilling its inner forms around the balcony. Bronson dropped to his knees attempting to fit them back together.
"I'm sorry, Sheriff," he said, "but sending back a hostage is risky. I don't know what they'll do now."
A strobe light caught the metal piercings in the Sheriff's eyebrows, making her sad eyes glow. "They'll kill him. If they haven't already."
The smallest of the dolls lay at her feet. It was a cub, painted grey to represent its downy fur. The Sheriff picked it up. "This is a matryoshka doll. Not a Russian doll," she said, rolling the cub around her hand. "This is Latvian. Like me."
"What's your son like?" Daniel asked.
"Brave. Honest," the Sheriff said. "He's my son."
"How do you know it’s the same people we're looking for?" Bronson asked.
There was a knock on the patio doors and Simon slid them open. The lightness had gone from his face and he stared at his wife.
"I thought you might want this," he said, offering up a small, plastic bag.
The Sheriff took it with a muffled thanks and placed the bag on the table. It was see-through, but dusted with frost.
"I keep it in the freezer," the Sheriff said.
She scraped a fingernail down the surface, scratching a window into the bag. Inside was a lump of meat.
"To prove they are serious," the Sheriff said. "As if I didn't know already."
Whatever was in the bag, Daniel couldn't identify it and he wasn't about to ask. There were some questions a mother should never have to answer.
These were the same people who had taken Sophia's daughter, but now Daniel knew something else. If the ransom wasn't paid, Karin would be killed. If it was paid, Karin would be killed. As would all the other teenagers. It didn't help. Merely confirmed his worst suspicions.
The Motorheads appeared to be one thing, but were actually another. Like the matryoshka doll. Like the Sheriff and Simon. They weren't just kidnappers. They were running an abattoir. They were slaughterhouse men.
"I want you to do what Daytons do," the Sheriff said. "Burn down the city, tear down the buildings and find my son."
Daniel clasped his hands together. "We don't know where he is."
"Neither do I," the Sheriff said, "but I know where he was."
Chapter Fourteen
Adrian was first through the door. The rest of them followed with Karin at the rear. Goosepimples rose on her skin as the temperature dropped. She rubbed her arms, forcing heat through the thin material of her pyjamas. The others did the same.
They came to the opening of a barn, but Karin couldn't see what was beyond. The guards stood at the entrance, rattling their whips. They thrust Adrian inside when he hesitated to go any further.
"Not this again," Rachel said. "Please."
The guards crowded her and she flinched against their cruel smiles. Crash stepped forward, taking Rachel by the arm and guiding her inside.
Karin marched past the guards, holding her head as high as she could. She only stopped when she saw the horror lying in wait for her.
The floor of the barn was a mixture of shredded cardboard and straw clotted with manure. A dying light leaked through the slats of the walls, but there was no visible means of escape. In the rafters were a host of pigeons, cooing softly.
Two steel tables had been brought in from somewhere. They were surrounded by buckets and boxes and tape dispensers. On each table was a groaning mountain of meat shapes.
Rachel and Crash stood at the first table, pulling on blue rubber gloves.
Choo motioned Karin to the second. "Pack it up," he said.
"You're kidding me," she said.
Lifting his pepper spray, Choo waved her to the table. "No joke."
She saw the guards from the corner of her eye. They dipped their rope whips into a metal tank. Lifting them clear, they watched as they drained of bleach.
Karin's walk was unsteady, but she made it to the table. Adrian waited for her, but it was the scent of the meat that greeted her first. There was no smell of death. It was the tang of blood that caught the back of Karin's throat. She held onto her stomach and gagged.
Adrian held the bucket under her gurning face. "Use this."
But she slapped it from his hands, feeling the floor solidifying under her feet again.
The meat chunks were in different shapes and sizes, but they were all red. As she sifted through the mess, she found a snout and a curly tail. They were pigs, or had been once and Karin gagged again. She was a carnivore, but she preferred her protein in breadcrumbs. She didn't like to be reminded of her meals as once having a heartbeat.
"Do it like this," Adrian said. He was already wearing his gloves. Picking up a slab of animal with his forefinger and thumb, he placed it inside a polystyrene box. Adrian taped up the lid and placed one box inside another, this one made of cardboard.
Handwritten on its side was the word MEAT.
"Is this what we're here for?" she whispered.
"Sometimes it's just leaflets into envelopes. Sometimes it's…" Adrian paused to mouth the word 'drugs,' "but it's always packing or clearing. There's always boxes."
Forcing down hot bile, Karin picked up the meat, expecting it to be warm, but it was cold to the touch. Droplets of blood oozed through the fibrous tissue and she dropped it in shock.
"You have to be quick," Adrian said. "They'll be bringing more soon."
"How long are we expected to put up with this crap?" Karin asked.
"We're usually here for twelve hours or so. No breaks."
"What if I need to have a pee?"
Ad
rian glanced at the bucket and his meaning was clear.
"Do you understand what you're doing?" he asked.
Looking to the other side of the barn, Karin saw the eyes of the two guards drilling into her. Choo was watching as well, his tapered fingers tapping on the side of his pepper spray.
"Yes, I understand," she said.
"Good," Adrian said, reaching for a cardboard box. "Argh, my hand. I've cut it."
He staggered, holding up his right hand, clutching it with his left.
His glove was smeared in blood, but Karin couldn't see a tear in the material. Adrian waved his arm, whimpering and dancing on the spot.
Karin bit down on her lip.
The two guards grabbed Adrian by the shoulders and led him out of the barn.
Choo approached. "You do boy's work."
"No way," Karin said. "He's faking it."
The slap across her face was fast and Karin fell into the table, sinking elbow deep into the meat. The bloody juices flowed over the top of her gloves, running down to her fingertips.
"You do boy's work," Choo repeated.
Karin blinked away a tear. It was shock, she told herself. She wasn't frightened. She wasn't alone.
Her temper flared like a firework and she grabbed a hunk of meat. Karin held it in a gnarled fist, ready to hurl it at Choo. She stopped at the sight of the spray. The cannister shook, but his finger was wrapped around the trigger and his eyes showed no emotion.
Behind Choo, she saw the worried faces of Rachel and Crash, their pyjamas stained with blood.
The fight left Karin as fast as it had arrived. She turned her back on Choo and dropped the meat into a polystyrene box. She heard his footsteps fade away as she taped, sealed and packed.
The hours passed and Karin grew tired. Her feet ached from standing in the same spot. No matter how quick she worked, it was never quite quick enough. The meat was delivered in buckets. As she cleared one load, one more was dumped onto the table.
Choo paced the floor, kicking at nuggets of horse manure. Every now and again, he would shout, admonishing her to move faster.
"I can't," Karin said, shaking her fist at him.
Crash came to her table. Even with one arm, he was quicker than her. The boxes stacked up and Choo appeared to relax.