by Ayre, Mark
Dizziness claimed James, and he closed his eyes tight, taking several deep breaths before opening them again, reexamining the floor.
No body this time. His breaths had dissipated the vision, and now he was alone. The body in some cold storage unit, waiting until Jane made funeral plans. That was if the police had released it. Probably not so soon.
Other than the absence of the body and a dark carpet stain where someone had mopped the blood in a rush, as though afraid it might come to life and drown them, the room was much as it had been the previous evening. A sofa ran along one side of the room, and there was a desk in the corner with nothing on top except a mouse mat and monitor that appeared to be connected to nothing, unless Harris hid his computer beneath.
Seeing nothing that might cause him immediate danger, James took another step into the room. One that landed him to the side of the blood stain, as though he was afraid it might still ruin his shoes. Behind him, the door closed, and even though the thud was soft, and James had been expecting it, he still flinched as though someone had snuck up behind him and shouted ‘boo’.
With another door between him and the music, he could now only hear the softest hint of bass. Or maybe it had been turned off, seeing as the lsat punters had to be filtering out. If it were the latter, it would not be long before the bar staff made their way upstairs, and James did not want to risk being caught in the office of the recently deceased assistant manager, even if Jane’s knowledge of his actions would likely protect him from severe backlash.
Acting fast, despite having no idea what he was doing, he moved around the desk and sat in a red office chair that dipped alarmingly towards the ground when his bum hit it. He tried not to be offended by this, and stretched out, placing his arms on the desk.
The blank screen stared at him. Reaching behind and yanking the cable he found it was indeed unattached. Despite this, he pressed the on-switch and watched as—shockingly—nothing happened.
Looking beneath the desk further reaffirmed the lack of a computer, but did reveal something interesting.
James wondered how Harris might have stored any sex tapes he had made. It felt unlikely he would have used his phone. Maybe it was all stored in the cloud somewhere, but if it was on any physical device… this safe would be as good a place to keep it as any. He could have held the money here too, had the safe not been a little on the small side.
Dropping from the chair, he examined the access panel on the heavy steel box. No use, it was code locked and a safecracker James was not. In case luck was on his side he turned the handle and pulled, but no, entry was not permitted
Sigh. This was pointless. Would the police have searched the place? He wasn’t sure. Even if they had the safe was the only point of interest, and would they have been able to get in? Other than that…
He scanned the room, but there was nothing. He lifted the mousemat and stared at the face of it. One of those free giveaways, though he didn’t recognise the logo. A cheap gift. Poor manufacturing as the plastic covering had started to peel from one corner.
Almost as though, James thought, someone had deliberately pulled it away.
Sliding his finger under the plastic, he wiggled it about, as though this might cause something to happen.
No hidden passageway flipped open, but he did notice that within the plastic casing there were two elements. A thin sheet onto which the company logo had been printed and, beneath that, a black layer of foam.
Could mean nothing, sure, and yet…
James pushed at the strip on top of the rubber and forced his way in between the two elements. Wiggled his finger yet again and, this time—
Something pushed back. Something thin. Something that felt like paper.
That’s precisely what it was. Pulling out the sheet he saw he had a slip of paper about A6, though it had been ripped from a larger sheet.
Heart beating, James stared at the page to find that someone—Harris?—Had scrawled two names, each accompanied by a phone number.
Ollie Roberts and Andros Stevens.
Neither were names he recognised, but you did not scrawl names on a piece of paper and hide them in a mousemat because they were the best available wingers for your next Sunday League game.
Were they related to the murder? Impossible to say, but it was another lead.
James flipped the paper and saw something potentially more interesting than the names of these mystery men.
A seven digit code.
Could it be? Had to, didn’t it?
Without much hesitation, James dropped to his knees and crouched beside the safe. With trembling fingers and poor vision, he managed to input the code on only his second try, hearing the affirmative beep that suggested the code had not been some web password.
With trembling hands, he took the safe handle and turned.
Click.
The door swung open, James’ breath caught, and he stared inside, letting out a gasp as in one second he took in the entire contents of the small steel box.
Rather anticlimactically—the safe was empty.
12
On second inspection, the safe was still empty.
No doubt about that, which did not stop James reaching his hand in, running it along the bottom, across the sides and over the ceiling, looking for something, anything, that might be hidden from his careful eye in the dark recesses of the small space.
Nothing.
Something wrong about that. Only hotel owners installed safes to leave them barren.
Again he reached in; still, it was empty. Had it been installed to house the stolen money, only for Harris to realise, as James had, the bag would not fit? Or did he have something else to hide which had now gone missing? It was not beyond the realms of possibility to imagine someone had found the code before. Someone who knew Harris had sex tapes, perhaps? James thought of the way Tahir had averted his eyes when telling James the videos were probably on Harris’ phone. Why had he felt the need to lie? Who was he protecting?
Then again, James could be overthinking it. Perhaps the safe was installed by Jane and left empty by Harris. Though he had written the code on the back of the slip of paper. Did that mean he had used it?
No way of knowing. Folding the slip of paper with the safe code and the two men’s names on—he would think of what to do about them later—he crossed the room and pressed an ear to the door, not wanting anyone to catch him stepping out of the dead man’s office.
No signs of life.
Pulling the door open he stepped out fast and closed it behind him. The hall was empty. Everywhere was quiet.
After grabbing his bag from the staff room, he went to Tahir’s door, listened, and, just in case, turned the handle and pushed.
The bolt rattled against the lock, the door shifted a little, but would not open. Fine.
He checked his watch. Half eleven, and, by the sounds of it, Lars and the team had made quick work of removing the punters.
Opening the door onto the mezzanine, he stopped.
All was dark. All was quiet. Silent even, as it had been last night but worse with the lights off. Weak moonlight watered through the windows into the bar, creating dim visibility, an eerie glow that would have unsettled even the bravest.
As though he were a lion trying to sneak up on a gazelle James stepped towards the railing, but this was not the floor for stealth. His shoes clanged on the metal and seemed to reverberate around the empty space.
Where was everyone?
He almost called but resisted the urge. They had left, that was all, providing him the freedom to slip away without anyone realising he had snooped through the dead man’s office.
This he tried, clattering down the stairs and rushing for the front door, yanking at the long metal handle.
Locked.
With a sigh, he turned, staring down the long dark bar towards the doors into the kitchens and toilets at the end. There had to be a back door, he supposed. Or was this part of the game? Had they locked
the doors and left him stranded for the night. A cruel prank on any evening but worse when he was being trapped where someone had recently been killed.
Not that he believed in hauntings or anything like that.
Trying to remain positive, he stepped through the building. This was okay. Better, in many ways, because his car was parked around back. If there was a back door and it was open—which it would be—he would be right by his vehicle, ready to drive off.
Moving across the bar, he imagined all the people who had been there earlier. Saw them walking out laughing and kissing and chatting. How many would have come tonight no matter what, and how many were drawn by blood? James wasn’t sure he wanted to know the answer. He knew what people were like.
The door at the other end of the bar was unlocked, and he yanked it open, moving quickly through it. In a short corridor, he saw the door left to the kitchen and right to the toilets. Ignoring both, he made his way to the end door—this one leading to the outside world.
A bar ran the length of the door and wanted pressing for release. It looked like a fire door—though there were no such signs—and he hesitated to press the button for fear the alarms would go off.
Scary thought, but what was he going to do, stand here all night?
Shaking his head at his pathetic fears, he pressed the bar and shoved the door open.
No alarms. No problems.
He stepped outside, saw his car and the world went black.
A second of panic then his hands came up, touching whatever had swallowed his head.
A rough, potato sack like material that scratched at his skin and restricted his breath, though it was pretty porous.
Panic seized him again, and he began to flail but moved in no particular direction.
That was his mistake.
Thick hands grabbed him under each shoulder, pulling him back. Before he could do anything, two more hands grabbed his legs and lifted, heaving him off the floor.
He was crying out now, yelling, and the arm from under his left shoulder released, grabbing his mouth and nose.
Pure fear as he became unable to breathe. Then the hand adjusted, so it was over his mouth only. Whoever was doing this didn’t want him dead.
Yet.
There was someone else. He felt them duck as the other two lifted. Rough hands grabbed his arms, yanking them together. Something that felt like rope began to snake around his wrists and he freaked, lashing out, tearing his hands apart.
The rope slipped, and one hand came loose, allowing him to smack the man with the rope in the face. He heard a howl of pain and felt a moment of satisfaction before they were back, holding his hands tighter as they bound them. Again he tried to fight but as he did the assailant, pissed about being punched in the face, sent two sharp knuckles into his back, sending a spasm of pain through his spine.
A few seconds later, the rope was tied, and they were moving. James felt himself float along the ground. A sensation that might have been pleasant, if not for the fear, the restricted oxygen, and the throbbing in his hands and under his shoulders.
He wanted to talk, but what was there to say? Should he ask their names and what on earth they were doing? Should he explain they would never get away with it? Somehow it didn’t feel any of the obvious would work, and he was having trouble thinking laterally, despite being so.
They did not go far before James heard a popping sound, and a swoosh of air as something flew up. The boot of a car. A thud and a shock through his back as he was dropped, then the whooshing, and a soft click as he was closed in.
Movement. Footsteps. People shouting at each other in muffled voices. He heard doors open then the whole vehicle sank as the three attackers dropped in.
Panic descended as the car set off, as though he had been closed into an airtight coffin, rather than the boot of an unknown vehicle. The hood clung to his face, and as he took deep, desperate breaths, he felt it pull against his mouth like he was trying to inhale and swallow it.
Davis’ sharp grin came to mind. The threats, making it clear James was suspect number one in the murder of Harris Chappell.
He would gather evidence before making James disappear, as he had Michael. That was what Davis had said, and James had been relieved.
Idiot.
He’d seen this film before. They’d take him somewhere remote, get him on his knees, and point a gun at his head. A sleek, black car would pull up, and Davis would step out. Approaching his men, he would smile and clap his gloved hands. He would ask James to confess his crimes, and James would claim innocence. Davis would say they needed to ensure this was true and his men would do just that.
They would be thorough.
When they were convinced of his innocence, they would apologise, claiming they needed to kill him anyway, They would ask for his final words, and he would begin to cry, if he were lucky, urinate or shit himself if he wasn’t. Davis would laugh, nod at the man with the gun, and that would be it. The rest—shallow grave, etc.—wouldn’t involve him. He would be unaware.
Which was something, at least.
As though a doctor had administered morphine, there was a moment of blissful calm. It lasted about three seconds, then panic was kicking the door down, grabbing hold of his mind and having its wicking way. Holding on and whispering—
You’re going to die.
You’re going to die.
Oh God, he was going to die, and he’d never got to date Megan. Never explored if they were fooling themselves or if there was something there. His fault. His stupid idiotic fault for getting involved in this. Should have let her run. Should have gone with her.
He was going to die and—
Stop.
Another shot of morphine, or something stronger, illegal. Calm rushed in, washing panic away. The car sped, heading to destination unknown. There were three men up front, and they would most likely kill him.
Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God.
He stood almost no chance.
You’re going to die. You’re going to die. You’re going to die.
But almost no chance was better than no chance. In situations like this, he reckoned the attackers expected to have an easy time. The hard bit, after all, was getting his hands tied and getting him in the boot. He had a bag on his head so he couldn’t see. He was frightened, trapped, and outnumbered.
Yet, all was not lost. They had not tied his legs, presumably because they expected him to walk at the other end, but maybe that was a level of complacency he could punish.
Fear was the key. As long as he let it rule him, he had no chance. They would use it to beat him. But if he was able to gain a level of calmness. If he were able to keep control then maybe, just maybe, he would get a chance at the other end to do something no one was expecting.
Even himself.
For the rest of the journey, James focused on his breathing. Deep in, hold for ten seconds, deep out. Deep in, hold for ten seconds, deep out.
Always the nerves circled his stomach, but with breathing, he was able to keep the worst at bay. He did not try to plan, knowing if he did he would spend too long thinking about what could go wrong and work himself into a state. Besides, he had no idea where he was going to be lifted out, or what kind of situation would arise, he would have to play it on the fly.
Keeping track of time was impossible, but they could not have been driving much longer than twenty minutes, even if at times while practising his deep breathing it felt like several hours.
The time had come.
He listened as the car pulled up, heard the muffled voices again. They sounded as though they were arguing. Good. That could only help.
A couple of minutes bickering and the doors opened, pretty much in unison. The car jumped as the attackers left, then they were coming round back.
James prepared.
For what, he did not yet know.
Pop. The boot swung open, and the air seemed to rush at him, trying its best to penetrate the sack which clung to his face.
Hands came at him. Two of the attackers had him, one on each side. Hauling him from his cramped position to standing. The blood was all out of place, and he almost went down but kept himself steady, stretching his legs without making it look as though he was, in case they were watching.
One of the attackers held him. The other let go. The one that still had him gripped tighter until James’ arm was throbbing. The ache gave panic an in, but James took another deep breath, pushing it back once more.
The attacker brought his face close to James’. Too close. His breath was hot on James’ neck and smelt of mint and garlic. James closed his eyes, though it made little difference beneath the sack at night, and tuned out as the gruff, obviously put on voice forced its way through the sack.
“Right, then—“
James ran.
It was the last thing the attacker had expected and, although the grip had been tight, the shock made him release and James was free, running.
Yells of shock gave chase, but James kept going, well aware this was stupid, that his chance of escape was almost no chance, given his hands were tied behind his back and he couldn’t see a thing. If they ran, they would catch him, but they were taken by surprise. He just needed another stroke of luck.
There it was. A car. He could hear it coming and started yelling and calling for help. Behind, slamming doors signalled his kidnappers’ retreat.
James cried with happiness, tears of relief spilling down his cheeks. He had escaped.
He gave a whoop of glee as the oncoming car swung around the corner and he collided with hard, cold steel.
Everything hurt.
This was, unfortunately, not an unusual experience for James. He had been attacked plenty of times. Ten months ago he had been assaulted by an angry father and savaged by four hooded youths to the point he could barely mount a set of stairs, all in the same day. A day after that he had fallen through a first-floor bannister to hardwood below.
More recently, there had been the assault by Harris’ murderer. His body had still ached from that when he exited the bar, and maybe that was the case now—the new aches and pains made it hard to tell.