Bringing Hell

by Larry Igbon

  “Inside,” said Holmes. “We can’t start without you. Isn’t that right, Gerry?”

  “It is, Alan. So come right in, Mr Ramsay. We cordially invite you to be our guest.”

  “You’re too kind.” And you have all the cordiality of a firing squad. He noticed that all items from his previous visit were still there.

  Holmes grabbed the chair and moved it to the centre of the floor. He waved Ramsay towards it with the gun. “Sit there.” He joined Grant by the washbasin and whispered something to him. Grant tensed, and his shoulders hunched. He hammered his right fist on the edge of the sink and shook his head. Holmes whispered again and patted him on the back. Grant’s shoulders dropped, and he nodded.

  By this time, Ramsay had a fraction left of the cable tie on his right wrist to cut through. Determined to end the fun for these killers, he knew his timing must be perfect. He settled down on the chair.

  At the sink, Grant was running water from a hose attached to the tap into the oil drum. “Did I hear you say something about a drink of water? Not to worry, I’ll have your water ready in a jiffy.”

  “No rush. A glassful will do when you’ve finished with your laundry there.” There was something about his maniacal grin that made Ramsay wonder about Grant’s sanity.

  “A glassful?” Grant chuckled, “Al, our guest wants a glassful. He’s a lad, isn’t he?”

  “Well, he has a sense of humour. So far, he’s been more entertaining than his brother was.”

  “I know.”

  “Soon you’ll find out I’m more homicidal than my brother was. Right before I kill you.”

  Grant responded, laughing. “See, Al, there he goes again. You can’t keep him down, he’s going to tough it out to the end.”

  “I know. It’ll be interesting to see how long he can keep it going. I’ll get the hook ready.” Holmes went to the wall and pulled a lever above the light switches. The overhead chain sling slid forward. The lifting hook, suspended from it, rattled and grated. He pulled another lever, and the hook began its descent. “How tall are you, Ramsay?”

  “Why don’t you come over here and measure me?”

  “No need, smart-arse. I’ll estimate the drop needed.” The hook stopped at eight feet from ground level.

  Ramsay almost nodded in assent. Until he visualised poor Craig dunked again and again into the water-filled drum. “You didn’t need to do that to my brother, you could’ve just shot him, you sadistic bastards.”

  “Yeah, we could’ve, but he was a stubborn pain in the arse,” said Grant shaking his head. “He couldn’t look the other way and keep his gob shut. I had to make an example of him.”

  Repeating his death threat did not suit Ramsay’s purpose. Let the psychopath enjoy the upper hand. He won’t have it long. He pursed his lips and glanced at the ceiling as he watched Holmes switch on the portable generator. The gangsters smiled at each other, but when they looked at Ramsay their smiles faded. Eyelids half-closed, his chin lolled on his upper chest as he rolled his head from side-to-side.

  That scene proved too provocative for Grant. His bellowed command built in volume with every word until it filled the Tombs. “Let’s get bloody started.”

  * * *

  Holmes helped Grant wheel the oil drum away from the sink and set it about three feet from Ramsay.

  “Right, let the festivities begin,” Grant said.

  They walked twenty feet to the generator and tool chest. Grant picked up a plastic water-spray bottle. He handed Holmes a battery-operated cattle prod. The latter removed his jacket and put his gun down the back of his waistband. As he walked towards Ramsay, he switched the cattle prod on and off.

  Ramsay rose from his seat. “You don’t mind if I stretch my legs, do you?”

  “Sit down or you’ll have no legs to stretch,” Grant said.

  “Fair enough.” As he lowered himself, he dropped the cable ties onto the seat. With the blade in his right hand, he was ready. First come, first served.

  Grant filled the spray bottle with water from the oil drum. He tested it by spraying a fine mist of water into the air. “It’s come to my attention you scotched a recent business meeting of ours. To discuss lucrative potential for our organisation.”

  “You can’t win ‘em all.”

  “Look at that, you wrote your own epitaph.”

  “Or yours.”

  “I need to know who’s been feeding you with information about me and my activities.”

  “Information about van Giersbergan?”

  “I want to know who told you that name, and the time of our meeting.” His face was crimson, and his left cheek clenched and unclenched, as if he were grinding his teeth.

  “Why the hell should I tell you that?”

  “Because if you don’t, I’ll make you regret ever being born.”

  “With the future you already have planned for me, that’s not an incentive for me to talk. Don’t you agree?”

  He snarled and flung the water-filled bottle at Ramsay’s head. A slight shift of position, and the bottle sailed past him.

  “I may not need to kill you at this rate. It looks like you’re headed for a stroke.”

  Though quivering with malice, Grant clung to reason. “Only after you shuffle off this mortal coil. Start the proceedings please, Alan.” He moved back to the generator.

  Reading the situation, Ramsay feigned a look of fearful anticipation at what was to come.

  Holmes stood before him and sneered. He held the prod close to his throat. “What am I going to do with this?”

  “Shove it up your arse.” He grabbed Holmes’ wrist with his left hand, sprang from the chair and drove the push blade deep into his armpit. There was a quick spurt of claret followed by a steady dribble. An ear-splitting howl resonated around the Tombs. Then he grabbed the gun from Holmes’ waistband and shoved him towards his partner. “Drop the gun, Grant. On the floor now.”

  Holmes’ shirt, soaked with blood, clung to his body. He held on to Grant, beseeching him to help stop the bleeding. The blade was still in deep, among the veins of the axilla. Grant, clueless, froze like a statue. His priority was to kill Ramsay. “Get over to the sink, Al, let me kill this bastard.” Hampered by Holmes, he fired a shot in Ramsay’s direction, but it flew wide.

  Ramsay got down behind the chair and the oil drum. “Drop the bloody gun, you don’t have a chance in a gunfight with me.”

  Grant thought otherwise. He crouched low behind the generator and fired a volley in Ramsay’s direction. The first three bullets passed through the oil drum and came out at various angles. Holmes, faint and unsteady, was trying to make his way back to Grant. Somehow, he believed his friend could save him. Ramsay stood and grabbed him by the arm and tried to plant him on the chair. Grant went for Ramsay and unleashed another salvo from behind the generator.

  Only Ramsay heard the two bullets that thumped into Holmes’ body. He propelled him towards the generator, where he fell inches from Grant. He groaned and held out his hand. Then, reaching out into the growing dimness, he tried to stand. “Gerry, help me.” The effort proving too much, he sank to the floor.

  Grant looked in disbelief at his best friend. The dark red essence pooled around them. “Al, Al, I’m sorry. Can you hear me, Al?”

  “Gerry.” Holmes held out his hand. After dropping his gun, Grant grabbed the hand. It was cold and sticky, but he held it as the spark of life disappeared.

  Ramsay kicked the gun away. “Get up. He’s dead.”

  Grant knelt up and stared at his friend’s body. The crimson rictus of death stared back through the lifeless eyes. The face, covered with an overlay of dust and grease, was macabre. His friend shivered as he peered at it.

  Ramsay grabbed him by his collar, hoisted him to his feet and shook him. “He’s history and you killed him, you trigger-happy maniac.” Grant tried to wrench himself free, but Ramsay held on to him. “Oh no. No time to pay your respects now, but don’t worry, you’ll be joining him soon.”


  Chapter 12

  It was 10:15 pm. Ramsay turned up the collar of his jacket. His cheek still hurt, and he had a slight metallic taste in his mouth. The warm breeze of ten minutes ago had diminished enough to make him shiver. This place, vibrant in daylight, was depressing and eerie in the dark. Noisy, daytime traffic was more balanced, even when set against the ubiquitous human chatter from dawn to early evening. Now, the sounds were more mechanical than human, even hostile. There were many unspecified sounds here, too. Pattering, and squeaky sounds. Flapping sounds as the occasional bird flew past and climbed skyward. A stench that rose and fell like waves assailed his olfactory system. The discomfort caused him to breathe through his mouth. The dark water of the Thames glistened around the rowing boat as it bobbed about in the fading light. Tiny and inconspicuous, the craft lay one hundred and twenty yards from the shoreline. Within one of the huge arches of the Blackfriars Bridge, they were invisible from the shore. The noise of traffic moving over the bridge was loud and constant. Little by little, the water level rose as the tide drifted towards them. It was time to rouse his prisoner.

  He had tied Grant’s hands together and attached them to a rope secured by a metal ring on the boat. Both armpits were on the edge of the craft, the rest of his upper body in the Thames. His feet and legs were below the water. Ramsay prodded him with the blade of the oar. He mumbled without moving. His captor got a handful of water and threw it in his face, repeating the action two more times. “Oi! Wake up now.”

  Grant opened his eyes and groaned. He blinked as he peered into the gloom, trying to get his bearings. Grimacing at the traffic noise, he squinted at Ramsay and gasped as he became aware. Anger boiled within him and he struggled to free his hands. Panting as he toiled for a minute to get loose, he babbled and cursed. Tired, he sagged on the rim of the dinghy. He shouted over the traffic sounds, “Untie me. Why are my hands tied? What’re we doing here? Where the bloody hell are we? Why am I in the river? What in God’s name is that bloody smell?”

  “That’s a lot of questions. Sure you want to know the answers?”

  “Yes. What the hell are you doing?”

  “Well, I’m planning your death, but you must know where we are? Look at the huge building over there, don’t you recognise it?”

  He stared for a second. “That’s St Paul’s Cathedral.”

  “Correct. So, this wrought iron construction above us is...?”

  “Blackfriars Bridge.”

  “Right again.”

  “What are we doing here? Why am I in the water? My leg—what have you done to my bloody leg, you crazy bastard?”

  “Oh, that’s a chain around your left ankle. It’s a strong chain, thick. The guy swore it could hold a battleship, but I’m sure he was joking. Anyway, attached to that chain at the bottom of the river is a forty-kilogramme kettle-bell.”

  “Fo-for-forty kilogrammes.” His shoulders trembled from stress. He strained to haul himself aboard. The bulging gunmetal eyes darted around as if seeking salvation. They glinted in the darkness as the tear ducts worked overtime. He did not want the tears, but the mammalian response to terror and despair was unstoppable. Confused and shivering, a burning sensation in his chest became unbearable. He looked up at the impassive, confident face. He saw no mercy, no compunction. Nothing but judgement. His tears flowed and snot bubbled from his nostrils. Then he attempted to reach into the boat, his voice a whisper as he pleaded for his life. “Why? You can’t. Don’t do it for God’s sake.”

  “Breathe, it’s happening. You’d better come to terms with it.”

  Grant’s head swivelled about in desperation. He could sense people on the shoreline, hear them crossing the bridge above. He had never felt so helpless and desolate. “Help! Help me, someone. For the love of God, please help me.”

  “You’re wasting your time. Stop whining, save your breath.”

  “Please, stop this. Let me go and I swear I won’t come after you.”

  “You gutless wonder. How many people begged you for mercy? Did you spare any of them? I’m betting never. Am I right?”

  “I may have. I don’t remember. That’s me, the business I’m in. I can’t afford to lose control. I mustn’t allow people to step out of line. Give me a chance and I’ll make things right, I mean it. What do you say?”

  “I say you’re a savage psychotic. You murdered my brother because he defied you. Then you terrorised his business partner and burned her premises to the ground. And don’t forget the two attempts you made on my life.”

  “I know who I am, and what I’ve done to survive and prosper, but you’re not like me. You don’t do what I do. Gratuitous violence isn’t in your nature, neither is revenge. I know it. I wish I could behave better.”

  “You should have wished that before butchering my only family.”

  “Don’t forget who you are. You wouldn’t be able to live with yourself if you did this. I’m sure we can find another solution.”

  “No. This is where you will die a horrible death. We’re waiting for the tide to come in at around 10:49 tonight.”

  “You can’t be serious, you’re only doing this to scare me, right? OK. I’m shit-scared. You win, I’ll give you whatever you want, I have millions. Name your price.”

  “I’m serious, the way you were when you tortured and killed my brother. He was defenceless, and you never gave him a chance. Now you’re helpless. How does it feel?”

  “How do you think it feels, you bastard? It feels terrifying. Please let me go, I’ll pay. The girl, I’ll give her a million, I swear I will. For losing her premises. How about it?”

  He spat out his response with such disdain it chilled Grant. “A million? That was their livelihood, you spineless thug.”

  “Two million. I want her to have two million. There were two partners, right? I’ll give you two million, for the upset and inconvenience. Sort of compensation, how about it?”

  “You have no money, but you’ll pay the ultimate price.”

  “I have over a hundred million pounds, it’s all yours if you set me free. Every penny. I swear.”

  Ramsay pulled a phone from his pocket. “Is this yours?”

  “Yes.”

  “Can you access your bank account details on-line?”

  “Sure. Here, give me the phone, I’ll show you.”

  “Behave yourself. Do you think I’d trust you? Give me the details of your bank.”

  “No problem. Go to Contacts and hit the button that says ‘Uncle’ that’s my bank.”

  “Very devious. You’re a wily bloke and no mistake.” He followed his instructions and after hitting ‘Uncle,’ the bank site opened. “OK. I need your user ID and password.”

  “Here, I’ll do that myself.”

  “Fair enough.”

  “Well, untie my hands then.”

  “Not a bloody chance. Punch in the details then let me see the screen.”

  Grant held the phone and punched in his personal data. A few seconds passed. “Here, look at my accounts page.”

  Ramsay took the phone and looked. “There’s nothing here. You have nothing.”

  “What? Wait. Click on Account Number Three, then hit ‘Display Balance’.”

  Again, he followed instructions, and a grin spread over his face. “No money here.”

  Grant turned his ear towards him. The air-horn of an articulated truck had drowned out his last remark.

  “Zero balance. It’s gone, we took it this afternoon. You have nothing, you are skint.” He held the instrument in front of Grant, who snatched it from him.

  “My money. All my cash. What have you done, you bastard? Where’s my bleeding fortune?” He snarled and sobbed simultaneously. The realisation that his nemesis had wiped out his account made him frantic. He was trying to board the boat, to no avail. “Untie my hands, I need to check this with Lorimer. He’ll sort this out. Get this bloody chain off my leg, please. Let me in.”

  “Your crooked accountant can’t fix it. I took your money, it’s
no longer yours. You’re not rich any more, everything’s gone. When you die, you’ll leave this world the way you entered it, with nothing. Well, you can’t complain. You don’t have the right. Haven’t you lived your life doing whatever you wanted to whomever you could, for your own selfish gain? I know you believed it would stay that way forever; after all, who would stop you? You’ve lived a corrupt life, hurting others for your own prosperity. With my intervention, the pattern has changed. Your power and influence in the world is over. That’s Karma, Grant, Karma.” His teeth glinted in the moonlight as he grinned. Grant sobbed and shook all over.

  He realised the tide had risen to his chest. He clung to the boat like grim death. Ramsay untied the rope binding his wrists. Grant gasped and then shrieked. The sound seemed inhuman in the gloom of the inky archway. It reminded Ramsay of the Tarzan films he enjoyed as a boy. This sound missed out the first note, yet it was like listening to the ape-man as he swung on a vine in his jungle enclave. Grant sobbed and reached out for his enemy’s hand. “No, don’t do it, please. Pull me in, give me a chance, please.”

  “OK. I’ll give you a chance,” and he handed him a large knife. “Here.”

  Grant tried to lean further into the vessel. Waves lapped against his shoulders. “What can I do with this? How is this giving me a chance?”

  “This is your chance, and it’s more than you gave my brother. You have a diver’s knife. Sharp on one side, serrated on the other. You know what it’ll take to survive this. And you’d better get a move on, before the Devil knows you’re dead. It’s 10:39. The water will be above your head in ten minutes.”

  “I can’t, I can’t. Please, I’m begging you.” His face was an ineffable vision of dread. He cowered and sobbed, trembling as his teeth chattered. Curled over the edge of the boat he looked like a deflated rubber doll. This can’t happen.

  The victor projected an evil smile. Smug and satisfied. He had no compunction about despatching this self-aggrandising, underworld czar to oblivion. “I’m surprised at you. I’ve given you a way out, and you’re too scared to risk facing life minus a limb. If I were in your place, I’d do it in a heartbeat. Still, there’s one more alternative for you, should you care to take it?”