by David Woods
“He won’t talk to you. All he wants is you dead. Just ’cause you killed his rotten brother, who deserved all he got.”
Jim thought about the problem for a while and, even though it was a warm summer evening, he made sure all the windows were secure, and checked the front and back door locks.
Rosie watched him shutting the kitchen window. “How long d’you think a bolted window’ll stop them?”
“Well it’ll be better to hear them coming.”
“I supppose that’s right.”
They sat and talked the matter over for a while. “I’ll ring the police in the morning,” said Jim.
Rosie was relieved. ‘I’m sure they’ll take some action.”
“I certainly hope so.”
* * *
Inspector Green was about to go out for lunch when the telephone rang. “Yes,” he barked.
“It’s a man called Jim Grainger. Will you talk to him?”
He thought for a moment. “Yes, of course I will. Jim. How are you?”
“I’m fine, but a little worried.”
“Why’s that?”
“I had a visit from a very angry ginger haired man, who seems to want to kill me.”
“Are you hurt?”
“No. He was interrupted and left in a hurry.”
“That’ll be John Briggs. I’d like to find him.”
“They say he drinks in the king’s Head.”
“I think we tried there before.”
“You’ll have no problem recognising him with that scar on the side of his head.”
“Oh, that’s interesting. I wonder how he got it. Right, Jim, don’t do anything drastic and don’t go anywhere on your own. Meanwhile I’ll see what I can do.”
“Thanks.”
The inspector made arrangements to have the pub visited for a few nights by CID men, who also went to the other pubs in the neighbourhood.
The second night a tall man sat down by the bar, drinking a pint of beer, and studying a stranger sitting at a table in the corner. He drained his glass and sat opposite him. “Hello, mate. Haven’t seen you around here before.”
“Just moved into the area.”
“Where d’you live then?”
The detective mentioned a street name. The tall man got up and walked to the bar, slamming down his glass, and the barman said, “Another pint, mate?”
“No thanks. It’s beginning to smell in ’ere.”
The barman looked across at the man in the corner and nodded. “What are they back in ’ere for?”
“Dunno. You’d better find out.”
The tall man walked out, leaving the bar empty, and the barman walked across to the corner table. “Who yer looking for this time?”
“What d’you mean? I’ve just come in for a quiet pint.”
“Load of balls. You’re waiting for someone and scaring my customers away.”
The detective sighed. “Very well. I want to see a ginger-haired man called John Briggs.”
The barman laughed. “Still looking for ’im after all this time. Why don’t yer give up?”
“We never give up. I understand he comes in here.”
“Never seen ’im, mate.”
“But he’s been seen in this pub.”
“Listen. Lots of ginger-haired men come in ’ere.”
“Yes, but not many have a scar on the side of their head, do they?”
The barman, a bald-headed thick-set individual, looked down at the empty glass on the table. “You goin’ to ’ave another drink?”
“No. I’m not thirsty. Now, you can tell me when you last saw John Briggs.”
“I don’t know the man, guv.”
“You’re afraid to tell me, aren’t you?”
The barman looked nervous and walked back to the bar. The detective knew it was no good continuing with the questioning and walked out. All other attempts at finding Briggs were fruitless.
Jim continued to work as hard as ever, but keeping a lookout for Briggs and his gang. He had telephoned Inspector Green again, but was told they were continuing their search. He was getting depressed and edgy, not knowing when the gang would strike again.
Rosie remarked. “They must have given up by now.”
“I do hope so.” But her arguments only made him more worried about her safety.
One evening he dropped off the last of his men and started driving home, feeling tired and hungry, when suddenly a large black car swerved in front of the van, blocking the narrow street. Jim slammed on the brakes and stopped inches away from the car, from which four men jumped out carrying pickaxe handles. Jim thrust the gear lever into reverse and drove backwards, whilst a man clung to the door handle shouting abuse. He let go and fell in a heap on the pavement as Jim backed into a garage entrance before driving forward again.
Keeping up a fast speed through unfamiliar streets, Jim looked into his mirror to find the black car was gaining on him. He racked his brains for good ideas but none came so he kept going, with the black car close to his rear bumper, until he reached the town centre. He thought this cannot go on and pulled over to the side of the road, where evening strollers were window shopping and generally ambling along the pavement. He jumped out and ran back to the black car parked behind.
The door was opening so he stood back and waited for the ginger-haired man, who was wearing a peaked cap to cover his scar, to get out. Jim spoke first. “If you want to kill me, do it right here.”
“I’ll kill you when I’m ready. And it’ll be no good you goin’ to the cops again.”
Jim was tense and angry. “This is bloody stupid. Why can’t you get on with your life and let me alone.”
“Because you killed my brother.”
“Killing me won’t bring him back.”
“No. But I’ll feel better about it.”
“You’re a complete nutcase and deserve to be locked up.”
The other men jumped out of the car at this provocation. Briggs turned to them. “Not ’ere, you bloody idiots.”
The spectacle was being watched by several passers by. Briggs looked at them and then back at Jim. “Right you bastard. You’ve got away with it this time, but we’ll be back.” He slammed the door and drove away with screaming tyres, leaving Jim standing there feeling extremely angry. He drove home slowly and told Rosie what had happened.
Rosie was sympathetic. “When will it all stop? You can’t look over your shoulder for ever.”
“I know. The police are useless, and don’t know what to do.”
“You’ll have to think of a way to bring it to a head on your terms.”
“Yes I agree, but how?” They discussed different ideas for a while until Jim was so tired he could not stay awake any longer.
The next day, following his usual routine, Jim regularly looked in his mirror as he drove along.
His fellow workers noticed his nervy silence and one asked, “What’s up, Jim?”
“I’m okay, thanks,” was his brief response.
One of them laboured the point. “Look Jim, if you need any help with those evil bastards, just say the word.”
“It’s very kind of you to offer, but I’ll manage.”
The rest of the week dragged by slowly, and he collapsed in an armchair on Friday night, looking forward to two days rest. Rosie gave him a cup of cocoa and they sat and chatted, but their conversation was halted abruptly by a crash and splintering of wood coming from the back door. They both jumped to their feet and froze, as four masked men entered carrying cudgels and long knives.
Chapter Eleven
There was a brief silence and then Jim, recognising the first man’s voice, stepped forward in front of Rosie.
“Right gypo, you’ll do exactly as I say or the old dear gets cut up.”
“Ok, but if you lay a finger on her, I’ll kill you.”
“Don’t be bloody stupid. You won’t get the chance.”
Jim stayed silent as Briggs held a knife to Rosie’s throat and gro
wled in her ear. “If you report this to the cops you’ll be dead as well. Now say goodbye and we’ll leave you in peace.”
Rosie was so shocked she could not say anything. Jim said calmly. “Don’t worry, I’ll be back.”
One of the men tied Jim’s hands behind his back, then blindfolded him, and the last thing he saw was Rosie’s pale frightened face with the knife at her throat. He wanted to fight but could not endanger her life. Someone poked him in the back with a knife. “Come on, you big useless gypo, start walking.”
He walked forward, bumping into the door, but someone grabbed his shirt and pulled him forward. He stumbled over the remains of the back door out into the night, and a voice from behind said gruffly, “Don’t say a word or you’ll die right here.”
The car was parked by the back garden gate and they shoved him inside with a man either side of him. The car started up and accelerated away, forcing him back against his hands that were trapped behind him, which was uncomfortable and reminded him of the trip in the police car after the fire. He tried to think of an escape plan but no inspiration was forthcoming, just the thought of knowing he would probably be dead in a short time filled him with fear. The men in the car stayed silent, and all he could hear was the soft drone of the engine. He tried to work out where he was going but soon gave up, and thoughts of impending doom were interrupted by Briggs’ voice, “Well, you ’orrible bastard. How does it feel to know you’re about to die? And slowly.”
Jim swallowed and stayed silent, trying to loosen the rope bound tightly around his wrists, but his efforts chafed his skin painfully. After about fifteen minutes they pulled up sharply, and Jim lurched forward as a hand grabbed the shoulder of his shirt and pulled. “Come on, gypo. Get out slowly and don’t try anything clever.”
He stumbled out on to a hard pavement, rough hands grabbing and pushing him forward. His hair brushed a low doorway and he felt bare floorboards under his slippered feet, but was pushed forward again and shuffled along with only the sound of boots on wooden boards to be heard. A door slammed and Briggs said, “Stay there. I’ve someone who wants to see you.” Jim stood nervously wondering what he meant and another door slammed.
“ ’ere he is Vi. That gypo bastard that killed your ’arry.”
“He don’t look like a gypo, but I’ll take your word for it.”
“Well, what d’you want done with ’im?”
“I want ’im dead,” she screamed, and launched a verbal tirade of abuse at him.
Jim just stood numbed by the outburst. He had never heard such bad language from a woman before. Her high pitched voice got more and more excited and angry and she suddenly started punching him, but he just stood still absorbing the blows to his chest and stomach. His composure only made her more angry and she screamed at him again. “You bloody animal. I’ll kill you myself.”
He felt a stinging blow as she kicked him in the crotch. The pain shot up through his stomach doubling him up and he sank to his knees, bending forward to bring some relief to his tender parts. She laughed and kicked his lowered face, the blow to his mouth making his lip numb, and as he swallowed he could taste his own blood. All the men were laughing as Vi said, “I feel much better for doing that.”
Briggs said, “I think we should throw him down the cellar to contemplate his doom.”
Vi laughed again. “Yeah. Let ’im sweat on it for a while.”
Jim felt hands pulling him up and he rose slowly and painfully before being pushed forward. He heard a creaking sound and Briggs’ voice. “Right, poke ’im down there.”
“Okay, guv. When’ll you kill ’im?”
“When we get back from our rounds later on.”
Jim felt a violent shove from behind, fell down a short flight of wooden stairs and hit his head against the floor at the bottom, seeing stars despite being blindfolded. His body ached as he lay still for five minutes after the hatch above was slammed shut. Lying on his side and getting cold, he then realised the floor of the cellar was covered in water. The smell of sewage filled his nostrils as he rolled over, soaking the rest of his body. He groaned with discomfort, feeling the slimy water between his fingers and his clothes sticking to his body. His mind was frantically trying to think of a means of escape. His hands, partly submerged in slime, were getting colder and his wrists slippery, so he concentrated on the rope.
Within five minutes of trying the rope slipped off, he massaged his numbed fingers and then undid the blindfold. It was pitch black in the smelly cellar, except for a little light coming through the crack of the wooden hatch in the ceiling above. He stood up slowly but felt dreadful. His stomach and sides ached, his head throbbed and his legs felt wobbly, so he sat on the stairs and listened as voices from above filtered through the crack. He heard a woman’s high pitched voice.
“I ’ope to Christ we get that bloody stinking cellar cleaned out soon.”
A man’s voice answered. “We’ll clean it up after that bastard down there’s been buried.”
“What’ll it be this time? A concrete boot?”
“Yeah. The arrangements ’ave already bin made.”
“Good. I’m looking forward to seeing ’im die.” The man grunted.
This chilling conversation reminded Jim of the perilous situation he was in. A telephone rang and the woman answered giving the number.
There was a silence followed by “It’s okay. Everything’s quiet ’ere.” Then there was the sound of the receiver being replaced. “He’ll be ’ere in ’alf an ’our.” She said to her companion.
“Good. I’ll tell ’im down there he’s only got ’alf an ’our to live.”
Jim quickly lay on the floor, giving the impression he was still tied up. The blindfold was on the step beside him so he tied it on just in time as the man shouted down. “Only ’alf an ’our to live, so make the most of it.”
The woman joined in. “Yeah. Why not pray for a while.” They both laughed and slammed the hatch down.
Jim got up quietly and started moving his painful limbs slowly, and after a while managed to climb the stairs and listen to see if the couple were still there. He heard the woman say. “Only five minutes. I ’ope he’s managed to collect from all of them.”
The man replied gruffly. “He will, or we’ll do a demolition job on their clubs.” They both laughed.
Jim moved closer to the hatch, placing his shoulder against the latch end, and his feet firmly on two steps. He drew a deep breath and pushed hard, and heard the splintering of wood as the latch tore away from the floorboards. The hatch sprang open, the woman screamed and Jim jumped out of the cellar. The man ran at him with fists clenched, but Jim weaved out of his path and turned to face him, receiving a blow to the stomach which he hardly felt. He grabbed the man by his shirt and lifted him off his feet and then shoved him down the cellar stairs with a mighty push. Jim heard the thud and splash as the woman launched herself at him, but he grabbed her arms and shoved her down as well. She screamed as she fell on top of the man just trying to get up, and they both rolled over in the slime.
Jim slammed down the broken hatch and pulled a table over to hold it down, but at that moment the door burst open and a man shouted. Jim looked around and saw a flight of wooden stairs. He ran up them and through a door at the top, which led to a carpeted and well decorated corridor with soft lighting. The room was well lit, had expensive furnishings and Jim was astounded to see a naked man laying spread-eagled on a double bed with his legs and arms tied to the corner bed legs. A naked girl stood by the bed with a horsewhip in her hand. She looked at Jim and sneered. “Piss off mate. And come back later.”
The man on the bed looked embarrassed and tried to bury his face in the pillow, but the girl just stood there unashamed with her hands on her ample hips. Jim heard footsteps climbing the wooden stairs and grabbed the bed, dragging it towards the door. He lifted one side up so it leaned against the door heavily at forty-five degrees, while the man struggled and whimpered, but could not move. The girl started thra
shing Jim with the whip, but he grabbed it and broke it in two. The girl screamed and came at him like a possessed demon, with arms and legs thrashing out at him. He grabbed a rising leg and pulled. She fell back stunned and he rolled her up in a loose carpet.
The bed began to move as men were pushing from the other side, and Jim ran across to look out of the window. A big black car was directly underneath, so he lifted the window open and, when he looked back into the room, saw the bed toppling over with the man looking horrified as he fell face down on to the floor. Jim jumped, landing on the roof of the car, which sagged under his weight, and as he jumped off he saw figures emerging from the house.
Jim grabbed the driver’s door and wrenched it open, finding a man sitting petrified inside. He grabbed him and pulled him out, shoving him across the road. After getting in the car he found the ignition keys were in position so he started up and crashed it into first gear.
A man was pulling on the door as Jim lurched away amid shouts and running feet. The man let go and ran alongside, but was soon left behind as Jim found second gear. He gripped the wheel so hard his knuckles went white, and was so tensed up that it was quite a while before he relaxed a little and found the light switch along with other controls. He drove slowly, trying to ascertain his location. Another few minutes passed before he found a road he recognised and set off in the direction of home.
A set of traffic lights delayed him, giving him an opportunity to look around inside the car and, to his horror, there was a sawn off shotgun on the front passenger seat. He tossed it on to the floor before anyone could look through the window and spot it. On the floor was a large bag of the type doctors use and, as the traffic lights were still red, he bent over and opened it to find it stuffed full of money. He closed it quickly and moved off through the green lights.
These discoveries made Jim realise how much danger he was still in — the men back at the house would want the car and money back and would be even more desperate to kill him. The big car purred reassuringly as he pondered over his next move, but suddenly a green car flashed by and braked hard, sliding itself across the road and blocking the way.
