by Rob Ashman
Shit!
In both the far corners I see the glow of red LED lights. The place is alarmed with movement sensors.
That’s fucked it.
I can go no further. My search for information has come to a shuddering halt. I sit on the top step, mulling over my options, which are pretty limited, then return to the basement and find the fuse box. Inside are banks of breakers each with a code handwritten on the face. None of them say ‘switch off the alarm system’. And who was I kidding, any loss of power would set them off anyway. I’m stuck.
There’s only one thing left to do, and that is to add a little disruption. I open up my bag and take out three glass containers, each one filled with a pale yellow liquid – petrol. Not enough to burn the whole place down but just enough to let them know I’ve been here and give them another headache. I place the jars on the concrete floor and look around for flammable material. In the corner is a stack of flattened cardboard boxes. That will do nicely.
I open the first jar and dribble the liquid onto the stack, allowing time for it to sink in. I remove the top from the second jar and place it on the floor next to the pile. I reach for the third jar when I hear a noise. A clunking sound coming from behind a closed door located in the opposite wall.
I stop and switch off the torch. There it is again – it sounds like metal being dragged across concrete. I bend down and grab the wire cutters.
The door has two deadbolts fitted, top and bottom. I eased them across. The scraping noise stops.
I inch the door open to reveal a small room about eight feet by six feet. The place is filled with women’s clothing hanging from two free-standing rails. There is a second door at the back, it too is held shut with two deadbolts. I ease them across. There’s a scuffling noise coming from the other side.
I fling open the door, holding the cutters above my head. The torchlight cuts through the darkness.
Now that’s a game changer.
Chapter 19
Harold Biggs was nearing the end of his shift. For thirty years he had been ferrying folk around Blackpool in his cab. Taxi companies had come and gone but Harold kept on going, conducting his business with a smile.
His smile was particularly broad this week because in seven days’ time he would be hanging up his driving gloves for good. He’d been planning his retirement for ages.
Despite the many years he had spent behind the wheel, three o’clock in the morning was always a struggle for him. He had never managed to get used to working nights and, with three hours to go until he knocked off, all he wanted to do was curl up and go to sleep.
The couple in the back of his cab were drunk as skunks. It was always a risk picking people up at this time – they might cause trouble, have run out of money or throw up in the back. These two looked pissed, happy and in need of their bed. Harold was only too pleased to be of service.
Harold and his wife had booked a cruise to celebrate his retirement. Ten days sailing around the Caribbean, eating and drinking themselves to a standstill. What a fantastic way to bring down the curtain on a working life.
Actually, it was a double celebration. One to commemorate his retirement and the second to celebrate thirty years of taxiing without having a single accident – an accolade for which Harold was immensely proud. Every week he would hear about this person having a prang or that person reversing into some inanimate object.
‘Silly beggars,’ he would say to his wife. ‘Call themselves professional drivers. Some of these youngsters could hit something driving on Salisbury Plain.’
Unknown to Harold, his wife had bought him a beer tankard, complete with the inscription: 30 years and not a scratch. A fitting tribute.
A young Asian woman bolted from a side street and dashed into the road. Harold’s tyres screeched against the tarmac, trying to gain traction on the wet surface. The couple slid forwards and thudded into the front seats.
The Asian woman bounced off the bonnet, smashing her head against the windscreen, leaving behind a cobweb of shattered glass. She spiralled through the air, landing in a twisted heap about fifteen feet away.
In seven days’ time, Mrs Biggs would present her husband with his tankard on the first night of their cruise. Well, she could hardly take it back to the store having had it engraved. And besides, she could still justify awarding him the commemorative gift on the grounds that it wasn’t his fault. Harold, on the other hand, could do without the constant reminder sitting on the mantlepiece.
Chapter 20
The Critchley job was not going to plan. My promise to Blythe of having to stick it out for a few more weeks had turned into months, but I could tell we were getting close to D-Day. Rolo was jumpy as hell and kept disappearing without telling us where he was – the shipment must be imminent. Then it all went quiet. The hubbub of activity was replaced by a serene calm and Rolo looked like someone had confiscated his toys.
I asked him on numerous occasions what was happening and he would shrug his shoulders and say nothing. It was infuriating. Then one day, out of the blue, he called me into his office and said, ‘It’s been delayed, some fuck-up with the supply chain.’
‘Oh,’ I heard myself saying – my head was racing. ‘I suppose it’s business as usual for now then?’
‘Yeah, pretty much.’
I was overdue a visit home and took the opportunity to grab a weekend away. The problem was, by now I had completely lost it. The affair with Natasha was out of control and the whole operation was approaching meltdown. I had tried to hide my decline from Rick but he could hear the warning signs in my voice. However, being this close to a massive win he was reluctant to hit the eject button. ‘Hang on in there and stay focused,’ he would say. So, hang on I did.
In truth, working for the Critchleys was exactly where I wanted to be; tripping out on adrenaline and burying myself deep inside Natasha whenever the opportunity presented itself. Which by that stage was every day and in more and more adventurous ways – I wasn’t joking when I compared her to a gymnast.
I told Rolo I needed to visit my mother who was sick. Natasha blew a gasket when she found out because she wanted us to get away for a few days. In fairness, we had talked about taking a short break but I thought it would come to nothing – Natasha had other ideas. After a blazing row, I went anyway for a three-day weekend.
It was raining the night they came. Blythe and I were curled up on the sofa, she was absent-mindedly stroking her bump, which by now was showing above the waistband of her jeans.
I had mixed emotions: on the one hand I couldn’t wait for this job to be over but on the other I didn’t want it to end. I thought alcohol would dull my troubles, and had polished off a serious quantity of cans.
I went upstairs to take a pee and heard a knock on the front door when I was mid-flow. Blythe called up the stairs.
‘There’s a pizza boy at the door, have you ordered anything?’
The alcohol had numbed my senses. It took a while for what she had said to register in my brain.
‘Don’t open–’ I yelled, as I heard the safety chain being dragged across and the click of the lock as it disengaged. Next thing, the door slammed hard against the hallway wall and Blythe was screaming.
I tucked myself away – still pissing like a racehorse – and ran to the top of the landing. I saw a man wearing a ski mask bundle Blythe into the lounge, followed by another bloke wearing the same gear, and carrying a baseball bat.
I launched myself down the stairs.
‘Where is he?’ one of the men was shouting in Blythe’s face. ‘Where’s the fucker?’ She was hysterical.
I landed in the hallway and a third guy came out of nowhere knocking me to the floor. He took a swing with his bat and it smashed into the wall. Another swing. Another miss. I felt the wind of the bat sweeping past my face.
My right foot connected hard with his knee. He yelped with pain and fell on top of me. I yanked the weapon from his grasp and leapt to my feet. He was rolling around clawing
at his leg. The end of the bat made an angry red circle in the centre of his forehead. He turned cross-eyed. I hit him again. A streak of blood erupted from the side of his head.
Blythe was screaming.
‘Billy! Billy! No don’t…’
She was on the sofa with the masked man holding a knife to her throat. I froze and the other guy smacked me across the shoulders with his baseball bat. I toppled over the coffee table. The next blow landed across my legs, sending a searing pain up my spine. I lurched forwards and drove my bat up between his legs. He screamed and doubled over, both hands clutching his groin. The next swing split the top of his head. I heard his skull crack open.
The guy with the knife yelled out; Blythe had broken free and was gouging his face with her nails. She was tearing into him. Blood was seeping through her fingers. I launched at him and missed my target and crunched the bat into the back of the sofa. He lashed out with his knife and sliced a deep gash across my arm, then bolted for the door.
I took chase but he was too fast. The last I saw of him, he was racing down the street on his scooter.
I went back to Blythe who was slumped on the floor.
‘There’s blood on the sofa,’ she said.
‘It’s mine,’ I said, trying to stop the bleeding from the cut on my forearm.
‘I’m not sure it is, you know?’ She removed her hand from her chest and blood glugged down her front. ‘I think it’s me.’
I tore off my shirt and scrunched it into a ball, holding it against the wound.
‘It’s all right, it’s all right,’ I said to her. ‘Hold this tight while I get the phone.’ I ran into the hall and dialled 999.
I spoke to a woman in the control room and told her we needed an ambulance, fast. I went back to Blythe to see her blood seeping through her fingers. I pushed my hand on top of hers.
‘You’ll be all right, you’ll be all right,’ I said to her over and over in an attempt to wish it away.
‘I’m still bleeding!’ she yelled, as I cradled her in my arms, trying to stop her struggling.
‘The ambulance is on its way,’ I said.
I remember hearing the thin, metallic voice of the woman in the control room. ‘Sir, sir, are you still there?’
I picked up the phone with my spare hand. ‘Yes, I’m still here. She’s bleeding out. I can’t… I can’t…’
‘I need you to maintain pressure on the wound, is your wife conscious?’
‘Yes, yes, she’s conscious.’
‘Am I going to die?’ Blythe said, looking at the bloodstain arcing its way along her chest and down her side.
‘No, you’re not going to die. The ambulance is on its way,’ I repeated. I then squeezed my hand harder into the wound and a spurt of blood hit me in the face.
‘Shit, now you’re bleeding,’ Blythe said, her eyes rolling back in their sockets.
‘No, no, I’m fine. Stay with me, stay with me.’ I reached for the phone again. ‘Where the fuck is it?’
‘On its way, sir, about six minutes away.’
‘Tell them to hurry.’ I looked down to see Blythe’s eyes were closed. ‘Fuck!’ I dropped the phone and shook her for all I was worth. Blood sprayed out onto the sofa. Her consciousness jolted back.
‘What? What is it? I feel so cold…’
‘Keep talking to me, Blythe, keep talking.’
‘Oh… err… I don’t know what to say.’
‘Anything, tell me anything!’ I tore the cover from a cushion and jammed it in the hole. The control room operator’s voice was sounding in the background. ‘Sir, are you still there?’
Blythe’s head lolled forward. I shook her. Nothing happened. I shook her again.
‘What? What?’ she came back. ‘I feel so cold and so tired. I’m going to die, aren’t I?’
‘No, no, the ambulance will be here in the next few minutes.’
‘But you can’t stop the bleeding.’ She gazed down at the crimson carpet growing around us. ‘They have to save our baby.’
‘Don’t talk rubbish. You’ll get through this when the paramedics get here.’
‘No, Billy, I don’t think I will. They have to save our baby.’
‘You’ll be fine, the baby will be fine.’
‘Make me a promise…’
‘Don’t talk stupid.’ Tears were streaming down my face as I pushed my hand against the wound for all I was worth.
‘You need to promise me, you won’t go after those who did this…’
‘You’re talking shit now, when the paramedics get here–’
‘Shhh, listen. Promise me that you won’t go after the ones who did this because they will kill you too. And I couldn’t stand the thought of you dying.’
‘Sir, sir, are you on the line?’ the control operator said over and over.
‘You have to promise me…’ Blythe was pulling me down to her. ‘Promise me…’
‘Okay, I promise, I won’t go after who did this. I promise.’ My resolution split wide open and I began to sob.
Blythe cracked a smile. ‘I love you.’
Her head rolled back, her eyes staring up at the ceiling.
‘Blythe, Blythe, stay with me!’ I shook her and her head boggled about. ‘Blythe, for fuck’s sake, Blythe!’
I laid her down on the floor and put my ear to her chest. Nothing.
I clenched my hands together to administer CPR, but as I shoved against her ribs blood erupted from the gash in her chest. My fingers went to her neck. There was nothing.
I picked up the phone. ‘Where is that fucking ambulance?’
‘It’s a couple of minutes away, sir. What condition is your wife in now?’
I didn’t hear the end of the sentence because I threw the phone to the other side of the room and went back to work on Blythe. I blew into her mouth and pumped her chest.
The ambulance arrived in twelve minutes, but it took nine minutes for Blythe to bleed out and die.
Chapter 21
I’m standing in my living room, staring out of the window at the early morning sun creeping over the houses opposite. My head is awash with the ramifications of what I’d found at the Paragon. It gives me so many options – but my brain refuses to click into gear. I need more coffee.
Jade is curled up, dozing on the sofa. Her hair is the colour of glacé cherries to match her lipstick. The grey and black eyeshadow daubed across her eyelids make her look like an extra from The Walking Dead.
‘You don’t have a plan, do you?’ she pipes up, not bothering to open her eyes.
‘I’m working on it.’
‘You’ve lost your edge. Gone soft.’
‘I’m thinking things through.’
‘Is that what you call it? Not having a clue is what I’d call it.’
‘I can do without this. And anyway, it’s not that straightforward.’
‘Really? Only if you overthink it.’
‘Come on then, what do you think?’
‘Bloody hell, do I have to spell it out?’ Jade is on her feet now, prowling around the living room in her half-mast jeans and Doctor Marten boots. I take my cue; my turn to take a seat. ‘Okay, first things first. They’ve identified Michael’s body; how long do you think before that bitch sells you out to the police? She might even be spinning them the line that you killed him.’
‘She wouldn’t…’
‘Are you for real? She wants your head on a spike and will do anything to get it.’
‘No, I don’t think–’
‘I told you, you’re going soft.’
‘Stop saying that.’
‘And what are you going to do when the coppers come calling? You may have hidden yourself away but you’ve not disappeared altogether. You need to get your story straight for when that happens.’
I pick up the camera and flick through the photographs that I took outside the club, trying to drown her out. Jade continues her rant.
‘Listen to me, will you?’ Jade is still stomping around. ‘That’
s only half the picture, what the hell are you going to do about Marshall and the Paragon?’
I replace the camera on the table. ‘That’s what I’m trying to get my head around.’
‘Get your head around what? Come on! Do I need to spell it out? There is a sports bag stuffed full of cash under the bed. You discover a woman being held in the cellar with all the hallmarks of being trafficked. And you’re staring out the window like a bloody lemon – thinking things through? What is wrong with you?’
I get to my feet, go to the bedroom and drag out the kitbag. The smell of notes wafts up to greet me when I run the zip down.
‘At-fucking-last!’ Jade yells from the other room.
Twenty minutes later I’m standing in a queue waiting to be served. The guy in front of me is sending a package to Edinburgh and the woman behind the counter is intent on giving him the benefit of her experience of when she spent New Year’s Eve there with her sister. He is too polite to tell her he doesn’t give a shit. I huff my impatience but the woman is oblivious.
After several more minutes and our second trip down the Royal Mile, the man peels away and I put my parcel on the scales.
‘Sorry to keep you waiting,’ she says, in an overly friendly voice.
‘I want this delivered by 9am tomorrow, please.’
She checks the weight, flips up the glass screen and I hand it over. ‘Can you tell me what’s in it?’
The question takes me by surprise. ‘Oh, it’s wedding invitations, you know the sort of thing – “please save the day”.’
‘Are they valuable?’
If only you knew.
‘No, they’re not.’
‘Oh, that’s nice. Is it your wedding? I do love a good wedding.’
‘No,’ I say, with as little emotion as I can muster. I don’t have time to listen to her recount a wedding adventure with her sister. She looks put out. ‘I’d like someone to sign for it when it arrives.’
