by Liz Mistry
He glanced back at Gore and saw that he was awake and watching him.
‘You okay?’ Gus mouthed the words.
Nodding, Gore mouthed back ‘Sort of,’ before glancing down at his restraints.
Gus grinned. It was good that Gore still had his sense of humour. ‘Any ideas?’
Before Gore had a chance to respond there was movement from the side and a large foot kicked his chair, sending it flying backward. It toppled and Gore’s head cracked onto the floor with a sickening crash, blood soaking into the carpet immediately.
‘Salak Piçler!’
That doesn’t sound good.
Eyes glinting, the larger man turned to Gus, machete raised above his head.
54
07:45 Premier Inn, Epsom
Getting dressed had been a struggle. Every movement released a wave of body odour that smelled like decomposing fish. Sean wondered if his body was rotting from the inside out and releasing its putrid stench through his pores. His limbs refused to co-operate with the messages his brain was sending to them, but he had no choice other than continue. Never before had a sweaty stinky bed in a lonely hotel seemed as palatable. Rumpled clothes and disengaged limbs were the least of his worries. The fuzz in his head pressed down on his eyes, he could barely open them without flinching. His throat was so raw he could taste blood with each painful swallow. Much as he would like to take a shower, bask in the warmth, sooth his aching bones – he had no strength left for that.
When he’d taken the phone call, Sean had realised there was nothing else for it. He had to make his way back to Harrow and pronto. He dressed quickly, then headed down to reception, his wallet in his hand. If he wanted a ride he’d have to be prepared to pay over the odds for it.
The lass behind the desk was on the phone. She was young and foreign – probably Eastern European, which as far as Sean was concerned was good news. She’d be on minimum wage and could probably do with a few extra quid. Leaning against the counter, wishing he could sit down, Sean allowed the ebb and flow of her phone conversation to merge with the radio that played softly in the background.
‘Yes sir, we are still open…’
‘And here, at Box Hill in Surrey, we have Jamie and his friend Gurpreet. ‘What are you going to do today boys? I see you have your sledges with you.’
‘If you wish to cancel you will have to contact our head office.’
‘We’re going sledging and then my mum says we can have hot chocolate’
‘I am aware of the weather conditions, sir, I am being asked to direct all calls to head office. They will be able to help you.’
‘Well, these two kids seem to be making the most of the snowy weather. They don’t seem to be bothered by the The Beast from the East. It’s not yet 10am and the area is busying up. Now I’m off for a well-deserved hot chocolate, this is Melissa Sowerby in the snow at Box Hill, Surrey.’
By the time she’d ended the call, Sean was only just able to speak. His forehead clammy and covered in sweat.
‘Are you ok, sir? Shall I call a doctor?’
Sean could tell by the way she wrinkled her nose that his body odour had reached her. He tried to raise his lips into a reassuring smile, but judging by the girl’s expression, he had only succeeded in frightening her. He lifted his wallet up and leaned his arm on the counter before attempting to speak. ‘Need to get to Harrow right now.’
He struggled to get the words out and the girl frowned, ‘Sorry?’
‘Harrow, need to get to Harrow. Right now.’
‘Oh, sir. The taxis aren’t running. The weather is too bad.’ She gestured to the door at the flurrying snow outside.
Sean exhaled. As his breath reached her, she jerked her head back, her mouth turned down at the sides. Sean wanted to smash her in the face. Who the hell was she to flinch at him, bloody immigrant – probably illegal too. He leaned further over the counter, a thin strand of hair flopping onto his forehead and took a wad of twenties out of his wallet, ‘You find me someone to drive me to Harrow in the next hour and this is yours, okay? There’s another two hundred pounds for the driver.’
The girl’s eyes dropped to the notes in his hand and then lifted back up to his face. She nodded and pointed to a chair in the corner. ‘Sit down before you fall over. I will see what I can do.’
Sean stumbled over to the chair and all but fell onto it, his gaze focused aimlessly on the blizzard outside. A snowplough, spitting salt onto the road, drove past – its engine thrumming in protest while its wheels gouged great mucky ruts into the snow. Behind it, a car crawled, lights on against the overcast skies, skidding every few yards. Its bumper was already bashed, it looked like a fresh bump too. When it pulled to a halt outside the hotel, Sean’s heart sank. It sank even more when a young man got out and, after three failed attempts at slamming the driver’s door shut, kicked the nearest tyre. Surely this wasn’t his ride to Harrow?
The youngster lit up a cig and, puffing heavily, waded through the snow to the automatic doors. A waft of freezing air as they opened made Sean huddle deeper into his coat. The lad remained near the sensor, keeping the doors open as he took a few quick drags. Inconsiderate git! Sean wished he had the energy to get up and slap the lad across the back of his head, but hell, he couldn’t even muster the energy to shout at him.
Tossing his cig into the snow, the lad walked through the doors, with an ‘a’right?’ to Sean that carried all the swagger of a Geordie Shore character.
Definitely want to thump him. He watched him roll over to the counter, bang his palm down repeatedly on the small bell and when the girl appeared from the back, he pressed both hands on the surface, propelled himself upwards and kissed her on the lips.
‘You a’right, Felka? That the tosser want’s a lift to Harrow?’
Felka, cheeks flushed, flapped her hands ineffectually at him, her coy smile belying her annoyance, ‘Ssh, he can hear you Wasyl!’
Yes, I fucking can – tosser!
The lad leaned closer and, laughing, lowered his voice a little. ‘Looks half dead to me – better get the readies up front.’
Fucking little prick – he might get a surprise.
Felka shushed him again. Coming from behind the counter, she smoothed down her uniform skirt and approached. ‘I have your driver. He will take you to Harrow.’ She looked around herself and stepped to the side. ‘Can I have my money, now?’
Sean grinned. Bloody mare was wise enough to keep their little transaction out of sight of the security cameras! Well, at least she’d done what he’d asked – and well within the timescale he’d specified. He held out the roll of notes, his grin widening when she grabbed it quickly with another surreptitious glance at the cameras. A five-minute phone call cost him more than a quick screw and a fumble with a well-used crack head whore – ah well that’s life.
He turned to the lad. ‘Hope your heater’s working.’
55
08:15 Saddleworth Moor
Heart hammering, Gus stared up at the raised machete. Its blade glinted in the firelight, sharp and stained russet in bits. This was the end. The smaller man, wakened no doubt by the racket, had jumped to his feet, shouting something in Turkish. He threw Gus and Gore’s IDs on the floor in front of Gus’ chair. The only word Gus recognised was ‘police’.
Eyes frantic, grin wide, the larger brother took a step closer to Gus and, machete still raised, spat in Gus’ face. Gus, ignoring the saliva trickling down his cheek, didn’t flinch, refusing to give him the satisfaction of revealing just how scared he was. The man laughed – loud and hollow, and with a heavy accent said, ‘Who cares. Police or not police, who cares Vulcan?’
So that’s the smaller brother’s name.
Vulcan, machete held loosely by his side, glanced at Gore. The pool of blood growing. He kicked Gore lightly with the toe of his boot. ‘Fuck’s sake Furkan! If he dies,’ he pointed to Gus ‘that one won’t give us anything.’ His accent was heavy, but his vocabulary seemed better than his brother�
�s.
Furkan grimaced, ‘Don’t need anything from them.’
Vulcan sighed, and averting his gaze said, ‘How do you expect to get him out of the country without help?’ And he pointed his machete at the prone figure on the couch.
Spluttering from the body on the sofa diverted Furkan’s attention away from Gus. ‘Get him drink – water – now. Go.’
As Vulcan scurried from the room, Gus tried to ignore his heart plummeting to the soles of his feet. Vulcan, it seemed, exerted a little control over his brother. Furkan lowered his machete, and Gus exhaled a long slow breath as the other man approached the couch, dropped the machete on the floor and, placing his arms around the prone figure, pulled it onto its back and up into a sitting position.
Daniel! Gus tried to keep his face expressionless. His stomach lurched, his heart pounded. Now all I have to do is keep the three of us alive! But how? Daniel was shivering, his pallor – with its bluish tinge – frightening. Gone was the well-put-together, slightly standoffish professor. Daniel looked in a bad way, but for some reason, these two brothers seemed to need him. Did they know he was MI6? Right now, he looked anything but a spy. Mind you, he’d never really had the 007 suavity about him. God, he wished he was privy to the classified shit the Chief Super had kept from Nancy. It may have provided him with a bargaining tool right now. ‘He needs a doctor.’ Gus kept his gaze lowered as he uttered the words.
‘Kahretsin!’ Furkan lifted the machete and approached Gus, his eyes full of venom, making Gus wish he had kept quiet.
Vulcan scurried into the room, spilling water over the rim of the glass he carried. He knelt beside Daniel and held the glass to his lips. ‘Drink,’ the ‘r’ of the word had the extra burr Europeans use when speaking English. The giant turned back to the couch where Daniel lay.
Daniel sipped and his coughing abated a little. His voice was hoarse when he spoke, ‘Cold.’
Vulcan draped a blanket round Daniel’s shoulders and Daniel immediately tried to clasp it under his chin. It was then that Gus realised that two of his fingers were black and his hand was shaking almost uncontrollably. Frostbite? He needed to get him out of here and soon – before he died of hypothermia or gangrene or something.
‘Daniel, it’s me, Gus. We’ll get you out of here.’
Daniel started, his head moved towards Gus. His eyes took a while to focus, but when they did, he started to laugh – long and loud and hysterically until a paroxysm of coughing wracked his body. When he finally stopped, he looked at Gus and said, ‘Good luck with that, mate.’ He leaned back and, resting his head on the lumpy pillow, closed his eyes.
Furkan turned back to Gus, his face split in a grin that Gus could only describe as threatening. He stepped forward, grin widening, his pupils dilated as if he was on something and Gus’ heart thumped against his ribs. He’d seen that look too many times before not to recognise it for the madness it was. The huge man stopped, feet apart in front of Gus. Holding the machete in one hand he patted the palm of the other with the blade as if considering which part of Gus to slice.
Vulcan stepped forward, slightly to the side of his brother. ‘Let’s have a cigarette,’ From a packet that bore the logo ‘Omar Turkish Cigarettes’, he extracted two cigs. ‘We can plan. Come on, leave him for now. He’s not worth it.’ And Vulcan swung away towards the door.
Furkan glared at his brother, his lips twisted in displeasure. ‘Wait!’
The younger brother stopped, half turned, his fingers touching his bruised face. ‘Come on, cigarette. The police pig can wait.’
Furkan threw back his head and laughed. Gus flinched as a wave of halitosis mixed with pungent stale cigarettes hit him. ‘Okay.’ He punched Gus in the ribs, shrugged and walked towards the door.
Gus’ shoulders slumped, and he retched. A tickle of bile dripped to the carpet, yet his stomach unknotted. Thank God! Maybe he’d be able to think straight without the threat of the machete in front of him. Furkan had almost reached the door when he turned, his eyes flashing and – with his rotten teeth bared in a mawkish snarl – he lunged towards Gus, machete raised.
The pain when it sliced his thigh rocketed through his body. Gus yelled and strained against his ties, trying to staunch the blood that spurted from the wound. His chest tightened when he looked down and saw blood everywhere. The hammering started against his ribs. What if the bastard had nicked an artery? There was nothing he could do except slow down. He looked up at his attacker and cursed. The other man laughed and the next thing Gus saw was a massive foot hooking under his chair, clattering him onto the floor. Still, blood poured from his wound, but slower now. Gus inhaled, trying to stop himself from passing out whilst the brothers conversed in rapid Turkish near the door. He wished he could understand what they were saying. He needed to have some sense of their motivations. He studied their body language, his heart sinking.
The older brother, Furkan, gesticulated with his blood-soaked machete, his movements over expressive and uncontrolled. Vulcan on the other hand kept his head down, casting furtive glances at Gore and Gus. When his brother drew close to him, he backed away. His tone seemed placatory and when at last Furkan grinned and slapped his brother on the back, the younger man’s shoulders relaxed.
After the pair left the room, it took Gus a few moments to collect his thoughts. He’d landed on his shoulder which throbbed madly. However, he’d avoided his head crashing onto the concrete floor which was barely covered by the worn carpet. His back was towards the couch and he faced Gore, who lay ominously still, his black skin now grey coloured. The bleeding on his thigh had slowed to a trickle and Gus grimaced, Furkan had been toying with him. No way would he have risked hitting an artery and having Gus bleed out. No, he’d want to take the time to enjoy his hobby. This was only part of the torture that Gus was certain would follow. For a split second he envied Gore’s unconscious state.
Someone was behind him, touching his back. ‘Stay still, I’ll try and loosen this.’
Daniel! Thank God!
‘Be quick, they’ve only gone for a fag.’
Daniel snorted, ‘They’re Turkish Cypriots – they won’t stop at one cig. I’ve been timing their cigarette breaks – ten minutes on average – sometimes twelve.’ All the while he spoke, his fingers worked at Gus’ back. ‘Damn fingers are useless. Frostbite. Gone black.’
Daniel’s breath was catching in his throat, and the heat radiating from his body was obvious to Gus as he worked. ‘Right, that’s as loose as I can get them. Wait a minute. I’ll get you a weapon.’
Gus heard Daniel shuffle across the floor, his breathing becoming more laboured by the second. He broke into another paroxysm and Gus thought he’d never get back to the couch before the Turks returned. ‘Just get back to the couch. Don’t let them catch you.’
But Daniel was back now, pressing something long and pointed into Gus’ hand.
‘Got it from his ‘torture kit.’ Slot it up your sleeve. You might get the chance to use it.’
Torture kit? The thought that he held the implement used to puncture holes into Izzie Dimou made him a little nauseous. His mind flicked back to the post mortem – her pale body dotted by puncture wounds. Sick fuckers! He slotted it, handle first, up his sleeve. The rope was not quite as tight around his chest. And it gave a little as he wiggled it. Was it loose enough to slip up over his shoulders?
As Daniel – wheezing like a knackered steam train – crawled back to the couch, Gus heard the front door open. ‘Quick.’ But there was no time. Daniel was lying next to the couch when the living room door swung open.
Fuck!
Daniel’s voice, reedy thin, called out. ‘Help, help. I’ve fallen.’
The brothers rushed to Daniel and together lifted him back onto the couch. Vulcan had just leaned over to mop Daniel’s brow when Furkan lifted his machete and whacked his brother across the shoulder with the blunt edge ‘Salak! I told you to take care of him.’ The brothers faced off against each other, Vulcan holding his injure
d shoulder, his eyes flashing, whilst his brother threw back his head and whooped like a rabid hyena.
Gus didn’t stop to think, he just strained against the rope, and wiggled it up to his neck, freeing his arms. Still attached to the chair by his calves, he slipped the meat prod down his sleeve, and grabbed the handle. ‘Hoi you, big boy. You’re a piece of fucking shit aren’t you, attacking your brother like that?’
Furkan turned, smile wide, eyes flashing. ‘Oh, the English think he brave.’ He sauntered over, tapping the blade of his knife against his left hand as he neared. Gus could feel a balloon filled with sharp rocks expand, filling his chest, jabbing and piercing his skin from the inside out. It egged him on. He lifted his chin, filled his mouth with saliva and aimed it at the Turk’s feet. ‘Prick!’ Come on, come on, you psycho bastard, come closer!
Laughing again, Furkan stopped right in front of Gus. He lifted his foot and Gus, seeing what was coming his way, brought his arm with the meat prod round to the front and jabbed as hard as he could at the Turk’s thigh – as near to the groin as he could. With any luck, he’d hit a major artery!
Off balance with his attempted kick, Furkan stumbled a little before righting himself, yowling. Gus kept stabbing, blood splattering over his arm and face, yet still he kept jabbing and jabbing, each thrust a little weaker than the one before. As if in slow motion. Furkan lifted his machete and growling like the animal he was, he raised it two-handed above his head and started to bring it down. Gus tried to wriggle backwards, but with his legs still attached to the chair it was futile. He saw what was coming and braced himself to receive it…
A mountain landed on top of him, splattering the chair and releasing Gus from its shackles only to replace them with a dead weight across his lower body. His injured leg screamed. More blood, warm and metallic, soaked into his trousers and spread over the carpet. It took a moment for Gus to realise that the blood wasn’t his. Heart thundering, he stared at Furkan who lay across his lower body, machete handle sticking out of his back. Behind him, Vulcan stood, face pale, shivering. ‘He deserved that.’