by J G Alva
“Shut up, dickhead. You see that bus to your left? At the bus stop?”
Guy looked to his left and saw the double decker bus parked at the curb. People were clambering aboard.
“Yes.”
“Get on it.”
“What?”
“Hurry. Or you’re going to miss ee.”
“But where’s it going? Where am I supposed to-“
“Jus get on ee before ee pulls away, you stupid fuck. Get a First Day Ticket. Go. Now. But don’t hang up. This conversation aint over.”
Guy ran to the bus, the holdall banging against his leg. It was getting heavy now. The last person had just paid when he stumbled on, slightly out of breath, and asked for a First Day Ticket. He hadn’t been on a bus since he was a kid. The bus driver didn’t even look at him as he printed out his ticket from the little machine. It made Guy mad.
There was about a dozen people scattered randomly amongst the seats, but nobody was on a mobile phone, nobody was watching him; he was ignored by all of them. Guy put the phone to his ear.
“You there?”
“Yeah. Sit down. At the back.”
“Okay.”
The bus pulled away, and Guy stumbled slightly at the motion, almost falling into the lap of an overweight woman in a red jacket. She glared at him.
Finally, he reached the back seat and sat on it. He put the phone to his ear again.
“I’m here.”
“Good. Now, this is what you is going to do. You listenin’?”
“I’m listening.”
Guy searched the bus, the crowds on the pavements, and his eyes touched every face, looking for that person that he must know, that knew him…
But he saw no one that could be his mysterious caller.
“At the next stop, get off.”
For a moment, Guy thought he had misheard this new instruction.
“Sorry, what?”
“At the next stop,” the voice repeated, with barely suppressed fury, “get off, but-“
“Where are you?” Guy asked, looking around again.
“In a car, followin’. Now shut up. Leave the bag on the bus. Put it to one side, on the floor, out of the way, but leave it there. And walk away. If I is satisfied with what’s inside, I’ll let yus know.”
“But I thought we were going to meet?”
“Nah,” the voice said, and hung up.
Guy looked out through the windows, looking for the car that he knew must be following, for the driver who had been in his home...but there was enough traffic on the roads that he couldn’t be sure he was even being followed, let alone that he would recognise his blackmailer.
Guy had no choice. He’d have to do what the voice said.
He tucked the bag out of sight, and only ten seconds later, as the bus pulled in at the next stop, he got up, leaving the bag behind. He thought his blackmailer, despite what he had said, might be one of the passengers getting on the bus, but five out of the six were women, and the only man to get on had white hair and was about seventy.
Guy stepped down from the bus and on to the pavement and watched, helplessly, as the bus pulled away.
*
Mike climbed down from the top deck of the bus, stumbling slightly as it bumped and swayed on its journey, circling the roundabout down from the new bus station and starting up Gloucester Road. He steadied himself, and then walked to the back of the bus to retrieve his reward.
It was there. Holy fuck. He almost couldn’t believe it. He grasped the handle firmly and lifted the bag on to his lap. It was heavy. He was desperate to peek inside but he dared not. Instead, he made himself wait. His car was parked only three stops further up Gloucester Road, and he knew he could wait that long at least.
He ran from the bus to his car.
His heart was pounding. He hadn’t been this excited since…he didn’t know. Since he and Tanya had first had sex? Maybe.
Maybe not since his days of bottle cap collecting.
He unzipped the bag and pulled it open.
Oh Jesus Christ.
“Oh Jesus fuckin’ Christ,” he muttered to himself, and never even realised he spoke aloud.
Inside the holdall, in a clear plastic bag, was the severed head of a man.
And stuck to the clear plastic bag with masking tape was a square of paper with the legend I OWE YOU £50,000 scribbled hastily on it.
*
“What the fuck?” The Bristolian voice screamed down the phone at him.
“It’s a head,” Guy said, almost jubilant. He was sitting in his van on the third level of the multi-level NCP car park behind the Carling Academy.
“You sick fuck.” The man seemed out of breath. “Where’s the fuckin’ money?”
“I have it,” Guy assured him. “And I’m prepared to give it to you, but not without meeting you, face to face. Nice trick, by the way. The bus thing. I liked it.”
“I told yus, that aint going to fuckin’ ‘appen-“
“Then I suggest you call the police, and I’ll take my chances,” Guy said. He was skirting a dangerous line here, but he thought he had the unnamed voice sufficiently hooked; after all, the money was so close. “If they come for me, they won’t find anything in the house. And they’ll just go away again. And it’ll all be for nothing. I’d rather they didn’t – and I will pay £50,000 to that effect – but I’m not overly concerned. It just means I’ll have to do some clearing up. That’s all. So. It’s your choice.”
Guy waited for an answer.
When he didn’t immediately speak, Guy said in his most placating voice, “I know I’m being awkward, but I really am a stickler for person to person contact. Especially in regards to something as expensive and important as this. Can you understand that? It’s hardly chump change we’re talking about here. I’m investing. In you. And I need to be able to see my investment, to see that it’s sound. That’s hardly unreasonable, is it?”
More silence.
Guy listened for background noise, for some sound that might give away where the man was calling from, but he couldn’t hear anything. Where was he? Who was he?
“Awright,” the man said finally. “The Downs. By the water tower. Aff an hour. If you aint there, fuck your money, I is calling the police.”
And he hung up.
Yes.
He had him.
*
The flat green vista of The Downs was just starting to fade as the sun dipped down below the horizon. There weren’t many people about, in fact it was almost deserted, but the occasional car passed by on the road that cut through The Downs and connected Stoke Bishop to the top of Blackboy Hill: Stoke Road. The weather wasn’t all that good either. In fact, it was miserable.
The water tower was situated a quarter of the way along that road, and was a large grey hexagonal concrete structure not unlike one of the creatures in H.G. Wells’ War of the Worlds, a giant mushroom supported by a central tower, and by posts at measured places around its edge. It sat back from the road, sequestered behind tall trees and a chain link fence. Guy parked his van just down from the café, which he could see was shut, and walked back to it. A jogger passed him, a young woman with her hair in a ponytail and white earphones trailing from her ears; she paid him no attention.
There was already somebody standing in front of the water tower, a shortish figure in a long coat, scarf and a dark blue Watch Cap. It wasn’t that cold, but the choice of attire helped to conceal most of the man’s face, so that only his nose and eyes were visible. He wasn’t that stupid then. Guy tried to see if the man’s general shape rang any bells in his memory, but nothing was forthcoming.
In his hands he held Guy’s holdall.
His eyes flicked to Guy’s own hands, which were empty.
“Yus better fuckin’ pray the money’s in one of your fuckin’ pockets,” he said, his voice harsh.
The man moved from foot to foot, agitated, as if he needed the toilet, and the movement sparked some memory in Guy. He stopped.
/>
“I know you,” he said. “Where do I know you from?”
“Beef!” The man called out, and before Guy had a chance to react, as if from nowhere, a large forearm was locked around his throat.
Guy thought stupidly: he must have been hiding behind a tree.
His hands immediately tried to loosen the hold, a reflex action, but the arm was impervious to his efforts, and tightened further around his throat: punishment for even trying to get free. The figure behind him must be big, bigger than Guy himself was, as for a moment he was lifted clear off the ground. Guy stopped trying to fight him and the stranglehold on his neck was loosened as his reward. There was no fighting this right now, but there would be an opportunity, at some point…
He would just have to wait for it, that was all.
The short man came closer.
“The bloke behind ee is called Beefeater,” the man said. “What can I tell yus? He used to eat a lot of hamburgers once. That’s prolly why he got so big, I reckon. If I tell ee to, ee will crush your fuckin’ windpipe. I saw ee do it once. The guy survived, but they had to operate on his throat a couple of times, just so they could get some food down ee. So don’t fuckin’ struggle. Got it?”
Guy tried to speak but only managed a croak. He cleared his throat, tried again.
“Yes,” he breathed.
The short man threw the holdall to the ground angrily.
“There’s your fuckin’ ‘ead,” he said, his voice thick with disgust. “Now where’s the fuckin’ money?”
“Not here,” Guy managed. The arm was still awful tight on him.
The short man slumped, as if in despair at the idiots he had to work with.
“Then where the fuck be it?”
“Back…back at my place…”
A glimmer of hope.
“At your house?”
“No…My other place…”
“Are you fuckin’ with I? Is that what you is doin’?”
“No,” Guy struggled, twisting his head to allow his throat to work. “No. I’ll…I’ll take you. I’ll take you…”
The short man stared at him, debating.
“Where?”
Guy coughed, trying to swallow.
“Another place. Redcliffe.”
“Where in Redcliffe?”
“I’ll…I’ll take you…”
The short man looked around to make sure they were not being observed.
“Awright. Fuck it. Where be your car at?”
Guy gestured behind himself.
“Back…”
“Gis I your keys,” the short man said, coming closer. “Fuckin’ slowly. No tricks. We’ll go in yours. Come on, come on. I aint got all fuckin’ day.”
*
“Where the fuck are we?” The short man asked, ducking his head down as they ventured further in.
It was a narrow passageway, and Beef had trouble maintaining his hold on Guy; Guy had been counting on it. The short man led the way, and Guy followed close behind, Beef’s hold on him alternating between a painful stranglehold to a loose arm around his throat Guy could have shrugged off without too much trouble. But he couldn’t yet. Not just yet.
It wasn’t until they had reached the room at the end of the passageway that Guy decided to make a move. It was a featureless square space, about twenty feet by twenty feet, consisting of bare brick walls that were slick with moisture and mould, a string of bare bulbs hanging on a chain from the ceiling, and an uneven floor, marked off into four separate rectangles at different depths throughout the length of the room. The last time he had been here he had forgotten to turn off the lights, and he knew that that would have to be his first port of call; the main switchboard was on the wall to their left, just beyond the passageway.
The short man turned and said, “now, where the fuck be this-“
Guy broke for it.
He ducked out from under Beef’s arm, feeling it draw tight just as he was free, too late, and then abruptly moved to the left, sprinting, and he heard the short man shout before he reached out and slammed the switches off, all of them, four with each hand, and then they were plunged into the most god awful blackness you could imagine.
But Guy didn’t need any lights. He knew these tunnels like the back of his hand; after all, he had played here often enough as a boy. Well, he thought with humour, he was still playing now, even if he was all grown up.
But this game was much more fun.
Moving swiftly and quietly to the doorway in the far corner of the room, he set off down the main passage. He could hear them cursing, their voices growing indistinct the further down the passage he went.
At the end of the main passage was his workshop, and as he came to the two benches at the far end he put his hands out to feel for what was on their surfaces. Behind him, one of the men shouted loudly, like the bark from an angry dog; it sounded like they hadn’t yet found their way out of that first room. He pawed through the objects on the workbench, touching small snippets of wire, the soldering iron, a small electric motor, pieces of unformed metal, pliers, a spring, before he came upon a long pole. He knew what it was immediately, but to be sure he ran his hand up the length of it to its end, where he encountered the cool steel and the razor sharp teeth. He couldn’t think of anything better to call it than Guy’s Wheel, but given a little time he thought he could probably come up with something a little more original…or at least something that would inspire more terror in the recipient of its intended operation. After all, they had to know it was going to hurt.
It was approximately five feet long; a flat metal disc about as wide as a Frisbee was attached at its end; the disc was decorated with teeth that curled like dark petals; they were very sharp. Attached to the disc was a small electric motor. He felt for the switch at the bottom end, found it, flicked it on, just to test it…and was gratified to hear the disc cycle up as it began revolving. It sounded a little like a dentist’s drill.
This was going to be some much fun.
*
Mike didn’t know what the fuck was going on.
The dark was absolute. He could hear Beef nearby, kicking around and cussing. He could hear the drip-drip-drip of water. He could hear his own harried breathing.
But he couldn’t hear King.
He had somehow gotten away from them, it would seem.
Mike was angry with himself. He should have known he was going to be fucked over. If there was one thing rich assholes were good at, it was keeping hold of their money…and fucking poor people over in the process.
Angrily, he unwrapped the scarf from around his neck and tore open his coat so he could get some air. He also took off his Watch Cap and stuffed it in his pocket. Wouldn’t need that anymore.
“Where the fuck is he?” Beef was shouting. “Where the fuck is he? Mike? Mike?”
“Shut up, Beef. For fuck’s sake.”
“Mike? Mike, where are you?”
“Lookin’ for the lights, numb nuts,” Mike said, and began moving in the direction he remembered seeing the switchboard.
The floor suddenly dipped into a hollow, and Mike went down on one knee. Fuck. He got up, and with his hands held out in front of him, cautiously moved forward. His fingers touched something. He went back. Rough stone. He was at the wall. He felt along the wall, moving to his right. No switches.
“I don’t like the dark, Mike,” Beef said, his voice worried. “I hate the fuckin’ dark.”
“Will you stop sayin’ my fuckin’ name,” Mike barked at him.
“It’s the dark,” Beef said. “I…I can’t think straight.”
“Then help me find the lights, you fuck,” Mike said.
Beef was quiet for a moment, and then Mike heard his shuffling footsteps.
“Found ‘em?” Mike asked.
“No,” Beef said, and to Mike’s surprise, a sob escaped him.
Jesus Christ.
“What the fuck? Beef?”
Another sob.
“I’m just…
I can’t see shit. Mike, I can’t see shit.”
“Will you stop saying my fuckin’ name, you asshole. What the fuck’s the matter with yus?”
“What if we can’t get out? What if we can’t find the switches and we can’t get out and we-“
“Shut up,” Mike said.
“Mike, I don’t think I can-“
Just then, Mike thought he heard something. But it was impossible to make out beneath Beef’s babbling tenor.
“Beef! Shut up! Listen.”
They were both silent.
For a moment, Mike thought he was only hearing the echo of their own shuffling feet, until it became quite clear that the sounds were not being made by them, but were coming from some distance away, from somewhere off to his right.
And they were getting closer.
“Mike,” Beef shouted, afraid.
“Shut…up,” Mike hissed.
Closer.
Closer.
Mike spun around. He couldn’t tell where the sounds were coming from, couldn’t make out a specific direction; the acoustics in this room were weird.
“Mike,” Beef said again, scared, Jesus Christ, what an unbelievable pussy, and then there was a sudden rush of sound, footsteps, harried breathing, the mechanical sound of a motor, all of it echoing oddly around the room, so that Mike could not tell where the sounds were coming from. There was a pause, and then Beef was screaming, screaming so loud and so high Mike almost didn’t recognise it; it could have been a scream from a prepubescent girl. It made the hairs stand up on Mike’s arm. He had never heard a scream like it, it was so raw and loud with pain.
“Beef? Jesus Christ, Beef!”
The screaming descended into a strangling gurgling, and then stopped suddenly. Something heavy hit the floor. The sound of the motor cycled down, slowing, slowing, like a dying lawnmower.
Christ, he couldn’t see shit.
Mike was starting to be afraid now. He had thought he could handle this, had thought he was smart enough to be able to handle it, but it now seemed as if it had slipped beyond his control. All he wanted was the money. It had always been the same, ever since the day Tommy had offered his extensive collection of bottle caps to Pete. From that moment on, it had been as if everyone else was getting the breaks.